A Bullet from Chekhov's Gun
by callmepagliacci
Summary: "Charming" was the first deep cover Edward Cullen ever affected, years before he became a spy. Bella Swan is an American girl at Oxford with skills MI6 wants. "Befriending" Bella Swan will be his most challenging mission yet.
1. Chapter One

A BULLET FROM CHEKOV'S GUN

_Legal BS__: Disclaimer: The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2012 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved._

_Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended._

Author's Note:

Once upon a time, I saw a pic of Robert Pattinson in a tuxedo. What was I supposed to think?

**Chapter One**

Sounds of fighting rolled over the dirty floors of the warehouse in a cacophonous, martial symphony, and Edward Cullen absorbed each one with the studied appreciation of a connoisseur. Bullets whizzed overhead, hitting the warehouse's cheap masonry walls with dull _thunks _and careening off the exposed plumbing with tinny _pings_. Edward crouched behind a shipping crate labeled, "MARSEILLES FR PERISHABLE." His eyes were open, but he saw only blackness. Nighttime was perfect for an ambush.

He listened attentively, as if he were at home tuning his piano. Edward could pick up even the subtlest whisperings of shoes over concrete, and the continued sound of a multitude of weapons firing. The sounds informed him of his enemies' positions and what firepower they were using; he'd be able to pick out the few allies he had with him as well.

The distinctive _crack _of an AK-47 almost made Edward swear out loud. Stealth was utmost. He'd hoped to get to his target and have finished the extraction before the foot soldiers got out the heavier artillery.

Several shots came from what Edward could tell was Emmett's sidearm. Then came a double-tap from the larger caliber that Jasper Whitlock carried. _Americans, _he thought, with amused patronization.

Edward heard the unmistakable sound of two goons hitting the floor.

"Yes!" Emmett whispered.

Emmett and Jasper's bullets had met their marks. Edward looked at Emmett, waiting for the signal- only Emmett could see if the way was clear. Edward pulled the slide back on his pistol, even though he'd chambered his bullet before entering the seedy warehouse. Everything was silent for a short beat. They'd killed all the foot soldiers, and more had yet to arrive. The three spies regarded one another. It was time.

In a smooth and fatal tango, Emmett and Jasper swung around and pressed their backs together. They raised their weapons. Jasper and Emmett each covered two cardinal directions to provide the best cover they could. Edward knew they were low on ammunition.

"I owe you two a pint." At Emmett's quick nod, Edward starting running towards the small door in the northern wall. He kicked it in with barely a pause in his stride. He immediately found, whether by instinct or because of his years of training and experience, an open trap door and the small form of his target trying to pull himself through it.

Edward hurdled over a desk piled high with the underworld's various currencies: diamonds, drugs, and weapons. He grabbed the target's ankle with his non-dominant hand before pulling him roughly down, where he sprawled on the floor at Edward's feet.

"Well, hello there, Alec. Where're you off to so late at night? You've hurt my feelings," Edward said with a sarcastic smile. He had his gun pointed right between Alec's eyes.

"What can I say? I've got a hot date. You wouldn't begrudge me some pussy, would you? And your mother's is so very fine," Alec responded in an accent that Edward couldn't place. Alec's dossier had huge holes in it, especially in his youth.

"I didn't know you were a necrophiliac as well as a poof. I'll add that to your file. Roll over, Alec." When Alec refused, Edward used the additional persuasion of his boot in his stomach. Alec crumpled and tried to use the motion to cover while he grabbed for a syringe in his pocket. He couldn't even get it uncapped before Edward kicked the needle away and viciously pistol-whipped Alec in the jaw. Alec cried out in pain.

"You trying to hit me with your White Fog shit?" Edward said. Alec's particular specialty was a cocktail of Ketamine, LSD, and Ecstasy, which had become popular in the clubs in this area. Alec's shit was pure - addictive and lethal - until it wasn't. Many kids had died after becoming hooked, but it wasn't until a diplomat's daughter had overdosed in the bathroom of a club downtown that Edward had been called in. Jasper and Emmett had been in the area.

Edward knelt quickly, his gun never wavering in its aim at Alec's forehead - Alec didn't know Edward had been ordered to bring him in alive - and flipped him over with a rough jerk on the target's shoulder. Finally, when the small man was spread-eagled and face-down on the floor, Edward quickly zip-tied Alec's hands and holstered his weapon, though he left it unstrapped. Alec was slippery.

"Target acquired and secured. Ready for extraction. Over." An assertive acknowledgement of his order crackled in Edward's earpiece, and a moment later the warehouse's roof was being buffeted with the helicopter gunship's rotor-wash. Edward heard Emmett's heavy footfalls approach. Jasper's more lithe gait followed, covering Emmett's flank. Both were still on high alert.

There was a radio crackle in their earpieces. "Fire in the hole!"

Several seconds later, a targeted explosion rocked the warehouse, and took out the roof. Teams of Special Forces fast-roped in and efficiently went about the task of securing the perimeter. Snipers watched the whole operation from their hovering perch.

Edward roughly pulled Alec off the floor, and with Jasper and Emmett on either side, pushed him forward. He began rapidly to secure Alec into a harness to be winched up into the helicopter.

"You English cocksuckers will never get a word out of me. You know nothing and will _never_ know nothing. I will die to keep the secret. I am loyal. I wi-" Alec's rant cut off with a choked gasp: Edward had secured the harness around Alec's legs perhaps a little more roughly than strictly required, and definitely without adjusting the placement of the straps meant to go around the upper thighs. _It was a good thing that Alec would never have cause to use his dick again,_ thought Edward, _because judging from Alec's pallor, he was hurting quite badly, and he wasn't even being hoisted yet_. Besides, the intelligence reported that Alec was as queer as Elton John's handbag, and preferred being a bottom. It was one of Alec's many teenage Prosymnusian lovers that alerted Edward as to his whereabouts.

Just as Edward was about to signal to the helicopter to start the winch, a lone shot rang out. The bullet grazed Emmett's thigh before lodging itself in Alec's gut.

"Shite!" The profanity that continued to flow from the burly Irishman's mouth was impressive, and Edward wished he could stop to enjoy a master at work. Instead, he wheeled around and fired off a round not a second after Jasper did the same, rendering a not-quite-dead man definitely dead - and missing most of his skull and brain matter.

"Helicopter gunship, we are ready for extraction, ASAP!" The helicopter began winching Alec- gasping and trembling- as soon as Edward finished speaking.

"Target has been shot in the abdomen, will need immediate medical attention. Be advised. Agent McCarty has also been shot. Superficial wound to the thigh. Stable presently, requires medical attention. I repeat: medevac required for target and Agent McCarty. Over."

"Roger. Will evac target immediately. Standby for secondary ground medevac for McCarty. Over." Alec's limp body was being manhandled into the cockpit. He'd passed out sometime during the short trip. The space that had been designated for the three operatives would now be required to lay Alec out so the medics could work on him.

"Roger, tracking. ETA on medevac? Over."

"ETA four minutes, over and out."

"Over and out."

Jasper had enquired after Emmett's condition while Edward had been radioing the helicopter.

"Oh, I'm fine, ya prick, I was just surprised," Emmett complained in his rolling brogue. Jasper was already pulling a small First Aid kit from his pocket.

"Shut up and hold still." Emmett ceased his anxious movements; the Texan's quiet voice held a strange authority that compelled him to obey.

_I wish I could do that_, Edward thought, as he watched Jasper quickly tear open Emmett's trousers to expose the wound. After a brief visual inspection, Jasper ripped open a pack of QuikClot and pressed it onto Emmett's thigh, then clapped his hand over it. Emmett hissed in pain and clenched his jaw.

The chopper flew away, leaving the three men in the warehouse with the Special Forces team, providing security while waiting for a tech team to arrive and catalogue what Alec had left behind.

Edward looked at his watch while they waited the requisite amount of time for the bandage to work. They'd been in the warehouse for twenty-seven minutes. Edward frowned. Such a long time wasn't ideal, but they'd experienced more resistance than expected.

He'd killed four men tonight, and between Jasper and Emmett, nearly another dozen were now on their way to Hell.

"Does the killing ever bother you?"

"No," replied Emmett. Jasper added, "Not for a long time."

"Me neither. I don't feel a thing. I keep telling myself that I should be bothered, but I'm not. I suppose I'm bothered that I'm not bothered."

Neither of Edward's companions knew what to say to that. The adrenaline that had coursed through their bodies during the gun fight and extraction was fading, rapidly, and it took all of their considerable training to fight off the fatigue slithering slowly over their bodies and the dulling of the senses that accompanied it. All three knew that such a mistake could be deadly. Emmett now had a gash in his quadriceps to attest to that fact.

"All right." Jasper flicked Emmett's bandage several times, and Emmett's tough facade slipped: he cried out. The QuikClot stopped the bleeding, but didn't do a damned thing for the pain.

"The bandage is sticking and the bleeding has stopped. We need to exfil now and regroup at the safe house ASAP. We'll wait for our next instructions there, while Emmett gets doctored-up rightly."

Edward was the de facto leader of the group, so the other two men waited for him to give the final word. He was about to respond affirmatively to Jasper's suggestion when his cell phone rang. It could only reasonably mean one thing.

"Cullen."

"Agent Cullen, you are to report immediately to the airfield. A jet is waiting there to return you to England. You'll be briefed en route."

"What of Alec? The evidence from the warehouse?"

"Both will be attended to by your colleagues. Quickly, Cullen."

"Yes, sir," he said, but the line had already gone dead.

Jasper and Emmett were watching him. Curiosity, despite its fatal nature to felines, was a spy's best friend. After returning his cell phone to his pocket, Edward addressed Jasper.

"Can you get him back to the safe house by yourself?"

"It's a fecking flesh wound! I'm not a fecking invalid!"

Jasper just nodded.

"Good. Go."

No goodbyes, no affection towards his brothers-in-arms, and no backward glance. Edward allowed himself to focus only on his next task: hot-wiring a rusty Peugeot.

Author's Note 2:

If you're curious about _which_ picture I mean, please check out my blog at chekovsgunblog dot blogspot dot com – there's supplementary info and other fun stuff on there too.

I would like to thank my beta, Sara ( abadkitty) and my pre-reader, Jamie ( JadaPattinson).


	2. Chapter Two

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2012 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter Two**

Edward was tired. The lack of sleep before the night's op and the adrenaline-withdrawal were wearing on him. Everyone coped with this reality of the profession differently; Edward knew Emmett liked to have a pint or several. He had an uncanny knack for finding fellow Irishmen, even in the most remote corners of the world, to pour him a Guinness.

Jasper had a different ritual, one healthier for his liver. He painstakingly disassembled, cleaned, and reassembled his sidearm; three times. Jasper once told Edward that during this time, he replayed the events of the op over and over, analyzing and criticizing, until the repetitive motion of his hands quieted his mind and sleep could take over. Edward didn't know that when Jasper had first joined the CIA, this process took much longer. Once, after a disastrous op during the Mexican drug wars in which he lost a close friend, he cleaned his gun over two dozen times, and didn't stop until he realized his fingers were sliced open and bleeding. It was Jasper's own blood he'd been cleaning off of the slide. He'd allowed the CIA to back-burner him for a while after that.

Edward preferred a simpler activity, one he could nearly always indulge in no matter where in the world he found himself, or why. All he needed was a little time and a slow smile. Edward Cullen preferred a hard fuck.

It was rare that an operation ended and he left the country without sliding himself into a warm, wet female form. He hummed to himself, images of precisely what shape that warm wetness would take, and closed his eyes.

He rather thought he'd prefer a blonde tonight.

Edward's head had rolled back on his neck, thudding against the cream-colored leather headrest – the fantasy was just getting _good _- when his cell phone rang again.

"Goddamn it." He fished the cockblocking electronic device from his pocket.

"Cullen," was his typical greeting. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. _God, I'm so tired._

"Agent Cullen. Good job with Alec. Your presence is required immediately in London. There's -"

"London?" Edward interrupted, "Shouldn't someone from MI5 handle a domestic issue?"

"If you'd have let me finish, Agent Cullen, you'd know that MI6's involvement has been specially requested because your target is American. She's a student at Oxford."

_She_, Edward thought wryly. He knew why his presence had been 'specially requested.'

"The dossier is being sent to your phone now. Your mission is to analyze her suitability for working under contract for us. She has skills we want, Agent Cullen. Isabella Marie Swan is gifted with languages."

Edward's eyes again flicked over the overtly luxurious interior of the private jet. It had been years since his last chartered flight; this was only his second time in his six years with the Secret Intelligence Service.

"So are a thousand of the translators working at Box 850. Why is she special?" He pulled the phone away from his ear and put the call on speaker. Edward began to peruse the documents on his phone. The green SIS logo flashed at him, and her dossier appeared.

Edward was struck dumb. She was beautiful. He ran his thumb over the contour of her cheekbone and down her jaw, hovering over the screen. He felt uneasy, suddenly, about meeting her in the flesh when she had this sort of effect on him, just through her Passport photo. (Who looks good in their Passport photo?)

The voice on the phone began to read off the same information that Edward was looking at.

"Isabella Marie Swan, age twenty-five. Born September 13, 1986, in Forks, Washington State, United States. Parents are Charles Swan and Renee Dwyer, née Higgenbotham. Charles Swan was born and remains in Forks. Renee divorced Charlie when Isabella was six months old and fled to Phoenix, Arizona. Miss Swan spent every summer there until she was 17, when she relocated to Forks permanently, subsequent to her mother's marriage to Phil Dwyer, a minor league baseball player. Mr. and Mrs. Dwyer now reside in Jacksonville, Florida. Charlie Swan is the Police Chief in Forks."

Edward nodded and made a humming noise to show that he was listening. He was staring at the pictures of the brunette they were discussing. He made a mental note to brush up on American baseball; a dreadfully boring sport, but it would be, perhaps, a safe opening topic of conversation. He started to plan his strategy- each girl was different, and presented him a unique challenge. Edward was a master flirt, even on a cold approach. Forearmed with the extensive information in this dossier, success was assured.

Edward flicked through official, government-issued, for-identification-purposes photos first, followed by snapshots from when Bella was a little girl. She was adorable. He watched her grow up. Pigtails and shy, tentative smiles for the camera gave way to longer and longer hair down her back and over her shoulders, but always the same timid smile.

Then the pictures stopped, and didn't pick up again until recently. Edward frowned. He felt irrationally cheated out of experiencing her maturing into a young woman. _Did she miss picture day her junior and senior year both? _ He shook his head. _Stop being an idiot._

Edward was aware, in some corner of his mind, that the voice continued speaking to him, relaying the "Just the facts, ma'am" of Isabella Marie Swan's life. He knew it was dangerous not to pay attention to a briefing. He assumed that nothing being said wasn't included in the file, which he'd have to study immediately anyway.

He was captivated. In this picture, she was on a grey, stony beach; she was apparently unaware her photo was being taken, and her face was utterly unguarded as she stared out into the blue-grey ocean. Her lashes were lowered, and a small smile of contentment turned her lips up at the corners. Her hair was bound in a loose ponytail draped over her right shoulder, but a few tendrils had been tugged loose by the wind, and whipped around her face in a chocolaty haze. Edward wished he could see her eyes.

Then Edward heard possibly the only thing that could capture his attention from his brunette daydream.

"Double-oh-one-three was set to approach..."

"What? Hunter is her handler?" Rage set Edward's limbs to trembling.

"_Double-oh-one-three_," the briefer replied, according to proper protocol, "was indeed set to contact Miss Swan, but he was called away on another urgent matter. You are to take his place. Contact will be made the evening after you land, at a cocktail party being held to celebrate the opening of an exhibit of pre-Roman Celtic art. She will be delivering a short lecture on her research into the Celtic languages. The details have been sent to you."

Edward frowned. That was terribly short notice. He wouldn't have much time to prepare. He checked his watch. 3.53AM, GMT. Sixteen hours and seven minutes until the party started, according to the invitation he was looking at on his phone.

"What was 0-0-1-3's plan on approach?" Edward needed to know what not to do.

"His cover had him set up as a fellow student."

"I'm a Cambridge man. You know that will present a problem if I'm to assume the same cover." Edward smiled as he thought of the impressive thrashing he and his rowing crew had given the dark blues in 2004.

"Yes, obviously it's possible someone would recognize you from your university days," the briefer continued, and Edward couldn't contain a smirk. The man on the phone was too tactful to call him a manwhore- out loud. "Instead, you will be," Edward heard the man on the phone sigh softly, "an international businessman-playboy interested in hiring her to perform some mild corporate espionage."

Edward laughed outright. He recognized the distaste in the man's voice. "Why fix what isn't broken?"

"Yes, well, you certainly have enough practice with this cover. Only minor changes were made to your usual story. Masen Industries, as usual."

"So, I'm to _assess _Isabella Swan." Edward didn't need to be explicit; the implication was clear.

"Her file states her preference for the shorter, "Bella.""

"Noted."

"Oh, and Agent Cullen? I hope you've had your tuxedo dry-cleaned."

**AN****: **Sara ( abadkitty) and Jamie ( JadaPattinson) are still my beta and prereader, respectively, and they're still awesome. Thanks, ladies, for all your help.

I tried to make the new information flow with the narrative as best I could, but I know you might still have questions. You can find a glossary of unfamiliar terms, British slang, and a yummy tuxporn slideshow on my blog: chekovsgunblog dot blogspot dot com.


	3. Chapter Three

A BULLET FROM CHEKOV'S GUN

**Legal BS:**_ The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2012 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved._

_All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended._

**Chapter Three**

Edward surveyed the room. He was in his element here, just as much as at the shooting range or in a cave deep in hostile territory. Seduction required a skill-set similar to the other tasks he performed as a spy. He had to assess his target, decide which weapon would be most effective in disarming their defenses, and focus solely on the execution of that plan.

Yesterday it was a French drug dealer and his sidearm. Today it was Bella Swan and his sexiest smile.

Edward took a champagne flute from a tray being passed. He scanned the room, taking in egress points and memorizing the floor plan; this was automatic, second nature. He watched his target chat and laugh politely with the various scholars, patrons, and socialites in attendance. She was wearing a deep blue gown that made her skin look pale and luscious, like the finest English double cream. Her hair was pinned up, away from her face in a style accented by braids here and there, lending an air of edginess and youth to her sophisticated appearance. Edward found himself repeatedly following the flowing line of her neck with his gaze. _Elegant and long_, he thought, _just like her namesake_.

He was completely in-character, and had been since he stepped out of his Vanquish in front of the gallery where he was supposed to make contact with Bella Swan. His charm was on full bore, borderline sociopathic. If he weren't such a cocky bastard, he'd feel sorry for the poor, small-town-America girl who was about to face the Knicker-Dropping Grin.

But he was such a cocky bastard, and as he spotted the slim brunette across the room, he strode over to her utterly confident in his own success. He approached quietly and stood as if he were admiring the same piece of Celtic art that Bella and another tuxedo-wearing male were standing in front of. Edward loved to listen to conversations not meant for his ears.

"Truly, Miss Swan, congratulations on your recent successes. You've already brought so much to this field of study. I understand it was your study of the Amerindian languages that led you here?"

"Yes. I seem to have some small talent with nearly-dead tribal languages."

Her voice was quiet, soft but clear. Edward felt like he had taken a beanbag round to the chest. That was one memory he didn't care to relive. _Goddamned Emmett._ He unconsciously rubbed his fingers over his sternum, above the third stud in his dress shirt.

"Don't be so modest! You are certainly deserving of all this attention. Congratulations again." She stammered adorably in reply.

The older man was saying his goodbyes - interspersed with more fawning compliments, which seemed mainly to make the girl uncomfortable - before leaving Bella to greet the next group of partygoers. Edward saw his opening.

He walked up next to her, standing slightly behind Bella, to her left. He noticed she was wearing very little jewelry or makeup. His mouth went dry. He took a sip of champagne and spoke.

"So, you're quite the cunning linguist, I hear." Cue the signature grin.

She didn't even turn; she closed her eyes and sighed before responding, her voice infused with facetious levity.

"That joke is just as funny now as it was the last six hundred times I heard it! Really amazing! I'll bet you do stand-up." She started to turn then, eyes flashing, already spitting more venomous words. "I have a question: in the long, storied history of assholes like you hitting on girls that are out of their league, has that line - or any other, for that matter - ever worked?"

She froze with her mouth slightly opened in retort.

_Fucking fuckering fuck me_ was her only cogent thought.

He was tall. Bella estimated his height at about six-foot-two. One of the more random parts of her brain, one that she never managed to corral into thinking in a straight line, calculated that to be 1.85 meters. She then felt a moment's self-disgust with being a hopeless nerd - a hopeless nerd a man who looked like _that_ would never be interested in, or perhaps only pursue as a matter of sport.

With that thought, Bella's emotional walls snapped up like a tripped bear trap.

Bella Swan would not be a bedpost's notch. She would not be the sexual equivalent of a GetGlue check-in sticker. She would not be able to think of another analogy, because she was rapidly becoming angry.

Edward watched the play of emotion on Bella's face with an amused grin that faded in perfect sync with the hardening of Bella's eyes. He was used to women responding to him, and physical attraction was a major part of his plan of persuading Bella to contract for MI6, but something was going wrong now. Alarm bells sounded in his head. _Obstacle imminent. Pull up, pull up._

Times like these, Bella wished she could cock just one eyebrow at a time. The bitch brow would be the perfect accompaniment to a snarky brush-off. She settled for a withering, disdainful look, and turned her back, joining a man and woman drinking champagne a few feet away. They greeted her enthusiastically in French and Edward stared dumbly after her. The clicking of her heels on the slate tile floor echoed in his mind to the rhythm of _you're-fucked, you're-fucked_.

_ That had not gone to plan. _

Edward eavesdropped shamelessly and tried to remember the last time he'd been so summarily shot down. Ten years, probably. Yes, it was that year that Carlisle had gotten so caught up in his latest project at the MI6 Technology Centre that he didn't come back home for nearly a week. All the food had run out, and Edward had nearly burned the house down trying to make soup. The Fire Department called a social worker. Edward went to the public comprehensive school in London for his Sixth Form, instead of the private school Carlisle had been sending him to previously.

Kids can be cruel.

Edward pretended to study the example of Celtic knot work in front of him. He fingered the various listening devices and GPS taggers in his pants' pocket. There was one fundamental rule in espionage when it came to trouble with your cover: you either make a tactical retreat, or sell it harder than ever.

Edward was preparing to sell like an infomercial pitch man, when he heard Bella say three chilling words.

"... _le brouillard blanc..."_

_ What did Bella Swan know about White Fog?_ He kept his gaze rigidly forward, and listened harder. Her accent had shifted from a proper Île-de-France to the loping Provençal he'd heard spoken just the day before in Marseilles. Edward had spent much of his adult life studying languages. He was a spy. Listening was what he _did_. His ear was trained to extract information from the spoken word, to wring every last salient point from the speaker.

Edward never would have guessed she was American, that French wasn't her first language. It was uncanny, to the point of being unsettling. If he hadn't seen her birth certificate - he had no more doubts why the SIS wanted to recruit her. The possibilities of such talents were impressive, and a little frightening. Could she teach that skill, or was it innate?

_**This**__ is why she's special._

Bella felt the strange man's attention in her bones. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing up. She refused to acknowledge him, and kept chatting with the French couple about the huge bust of the alleged dealer of a dangerous new 'club' compound, and the mysterious nature of the bust. They spoke of their acquaintance, who had nearly died after taking some White Fog. _La drogue _generally, as an idea; specifically, in practice. The couple had lived in America during the late '60s, and had quite a lot to say on the subject, and normally Bella would be fascinated. She loved history nearly as much as she loved language.

Her mind was fixated on the handsome man behind her, though. His tall, lean, and imposing frame in his classic black tuxedo, which made his exotic coloration even more striking: crazy-intense green eyes; unblemished skin with a hint of pink in his cheeks, like he was a tipsy anime character, or had spent a few minutes too long in the sun; hair the color of pennies and bronze that made him look freshly fucked, deliberately.

_No way that's natural. He must be one of those metrosexual types._

But he definitely couldn't be gay. The energy radiating from the man was overtly sexual, overwhelmingly so. In the brief moment she had met his eyes, a frisson passed through the air between them. Something fundamentally female within her recognized something fundamentally male in him.

She was frazzled, her thoughts were scattered. A half-dozen words for 'green' ran through her mind. She focused on Peter and Charlotte's eyes; they were blue.

Bella was indubitably attracted to that man, but she was sure her attitude towards him had ruined any chance - in classic fashion, Bella began to over-think.

_I don't want him anyways, not really. It's just evolutionary psychology at work, recognizing a virile potential mate. Guys like that don't pick girls like me. I'm a __nerd. Guys like that want blonde, big-titted women with no gag reflex. This is for the best. I'm a nerd..._

A voice, too loud to be entirely appropriate for the setting, called out to her, bringing Bella out of her spiraling self-flagellation. She groaned. Peter stopped talking - Bella couldn't have told you what he was discussing - and looked over at the interloper.

A blond young man was making his way over to Bella. She smiled as pleasantly as she could.

"Hi, Mike."

He leaned down to kiss her on her cheek. As he did, she caught a peek under his carefully-careless undone collar and loose tie. _Oh my God. __He's wearing a puka-shell necklace._

Edward watched as the newcomer greeted his target. He couldn't see Bella's face at this angle, but _Mike _was acting awfully familiar. His hair had too much gel in it - it looked like he was going for California surfer-boy, but had actually achieved something more hedgehog-y.

Edward was frozen in place as Bella made introductions. _Are they dating? Is it serious? What does she see in him? _He was just assessing the security risk to his asset, he told himself.

"Charlotte and Peter Venin, this is Michael Newton. He's a student at Oxford as well, at Balliol."

Edward's mind flipped rapidly through Bella's dossier. _Newton... Newton... oh. _From the looks Peter and Charlotte were giving Bella, they understood as well. Michael Newton was old money, minor aristocracy. His parents had donated generously to both Michael's College and the very gallery he was now standing in.

"Hello there. I thought I'd come say, 'hello' to the only girl I know who looks hot in subfusc!" His voice was still too loud, and he had the gormless affect that can only come from a longstanding tradition of marrying one's cousins.

_Soft-chinned twat._

Bella blushed, laughed awkwardly, and deflected. Michael Newton continued on in his over-enthusiastic manner, and Peter and Charlotte watched like this was Royal Ascot. All that was missing were the hats.

Bella was gamely trying to converse with Newton, but he kept steering the conversation back to an invitation for a date Bella had apparently refused.

"You need a drink. I'll go get you one." Mike went to the bar.

Edward grinned. _Bingo_. He grabbed another flute of champagne from a server's tray for Bella. She'd downed hers in the first few moments after introducing Mike Newton. He knew from her file that she rarely drank hard liquor.

He caught her eye as he walked over. Green irises met brown, and surprise flashed through the latter. Edward smiled politely.

"Hello, my name is Edward Cullen. You're Bella?"

**Author's Note:** Thank you to my prereader, Jamie ( JadaPattinson) and my beta, Sara ( abadkitty). If there are any unfamiliar terms, or if you'd just like to stare at a bad-ass tuxporn slideshow, please check out my story blog at chekovsgunblog dot blogspot dot com. Check me out on Twitter ( CallMePagliacci) and you brave souls out there can even drop Bondward_Tweets a line.

Happy Birthday to Jill ( o_Oza)! I hope Ebil Leeder Day has left you "pleasantly surprised." Ooza's story, _Adore, Adore_ is one of the best being updated right now—slow though those updates may come. _Inside Man_ is another favorite.


	4. Chapter Four

A BULLET FROM CHEKOV'S GUN

**Legal BS:**_ The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2012 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved._

_All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended._

**Chapter Four**

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cullen, but only my friends call me 'Bella,'" she said as she coolly took the proffered champagne and sipped. She gestured to one of the several placards placed throughout the gallery upon which her photo, the title of her speech, and her full name were printed.

_Her full name._ Edward realized his mistake. He'd read her dossier and her stated preference of nickname. He was supposed to be a stranger. _Shit_. He shook off the gaffe, and recalled his plan for the evening: flirtatious, dapper, suave. He slipped into the cover just like the impeccably-tailored tuxedo that was his armor for the evening. Tonight, Edward Cullen was the millionaire playboy all women desired a romp with, the one they fantasized about taming. Bella Swan would want him just like the others, he would make certain of it.

"Please forgive me," Edward replied, doing the smoothest backpedal he was capable of, "I heard your companions call you that and... ah. It was presumptuous of me. Allow me to introduce myself properly, then." He reached into his tuxedo jacket and pulled out a business card with two long, white, calloused fingers. With a flourish, he flipped the card over so the print was facing Bella.

Bella absolutely loathed how impressive she found that move to be. She was sure he practiced that trick in front of a mirror. Bella took the card from him and their fingers brushed slightly. His skin felt hot on hers, and a delicious, tense ache spread through her body, radiating from that tiny spot where they'd been connected. Her eyes moved up to his in a flash.

Bella had felt something like Edward's touch only once before, several years ago in Phoenix. _I was walking home from school, and one of the rare thunderstorms was bearing down. Lightning struck; thunder rumbled over the desert floor between the city and the mountains. Every hair on my body was standing on end. My heart was pounding, and my limbs were trembling with nervous excitement. Tension grew within me as the ionic charge built in the atmosphere- along with a strange sense of the __**impending**__, that something momentous, but unquantifiable, was about to happen_.

Except for the addition of a resonant sexual attraction, radiating from deep in her soul out to the tips of her fingers and toes, Bella now felt exactly as she did that day before the electrical storm.

Edward had planned the slight touch to gauge her reaction to him. He watched her eyes widen, her mouth open just enough to gasp a tiny-but-audible breath, and a dusky rose color spread in her cheeks.

He was unprepared for his own reaction. A thrill of arousal, shockingly powerful, licked, rough like a cat's tongue, up his spine. Edward felt the urge to take her, to bodily claim Bella as his. He wanted her. At the same time, he felt a preternatural calm descend over him, like putting on a soft t-shirt after a whole day in your Sunday best. He felt warm. Safe, for the first time since he joined Her Majesty's Secret Service. The omnipresent buzzing of awareness in his mind- the drive to constantly monitor his surroundings for potential threats- quieted down. It wasn't absent, just relegated to the background, overwhelmed by a powerful lust. Edward actively sought out this sensation- sought it out in the arms of beautiful women all over the world, as often as possible- but he was still confused by its appearance and intensity.

_How- why- do I feel this way? I'm not even fucking her!_ Edward made himself focus, despite his arousal, his calm, and his profound confusion about the two sensations' timing. He had a job to do.

Bella realized she was biting her lip as she gazed at him, and consciously chose to let go. That immature habit was proving difficult to break. She took the card from him warily and looked down to read it. His voice slid through the space between them, softly announcing what Bella saw printed on his card. His tone had lost a bit of its former swagger, and Bella found herself conversely all the more attracted to it.

"My name is Edward Cullen. I'm the Chief Operating Officer at Masen Industries. Are you familiar with my company?"

Bella's lips pursed slightly, and a tiny line appeared between her eyebrows. Edward wanted to kiss that little line.

"No, I don't think I've heard of it, Mr. Cullen."

"Edward, please. We produce MacGuffin Security. Most civilians haven't heard of it, like most of our work, it's done on a government contract."

"MacGuffin."

"Yes." Looking into her eyes, Edward knew Bella had understood the reference to the cinematic plot device. He found himself unsurprised.

"The papers in the briefcase."

"Yes," he said again. He was grinning at her wickedly. "Our founder was, ah, a bit of a Hitchcock fan."

"You look like you're enjoying a private joke at my expense."

"Nothing of the sort. Just remembering all the times I've seen _Rear Window _at company functions."

"Ah, well, it was nice to meet you, Mr. Cullen, but I was just heading home. Thanks for the champagne." Edward frowned. The entire speech was delivered, in a rush, to his left shoulder. Bella looked a little panicked. He tilted his head slightly and spotted the problem in his peripheral vision: Mike Newton was making his way back over towards them. The part of Edward's mind that was constantly assessing his environment, so curiously- and dangerously- quiet during his interaction with Bella, snapped to attention. He already knew the fastest way out of the room, and in the barest moment, had plotted a route through the chattering socialites which gave him and Bella the best chance of getting out of the party unaccosted. Edward looked down at her with a knowing look.

"Let me walk you out."

He offered her his arm, like a gentleman, in a move performed only a little too slickly for Bella to take seriously. She would've argued, but Mike Newton was headed this way, drinks in hand.

_Dear God, did he order her a Slippery Nipple? _Bella quickly rid herself of her empty champagne flute as they passed a tray-bearing waiter. Edward already knew she wasn't a Slippery Nipple kind of girl. Thinking about the words "slippery" and "nipple" in association with Bella was making walking a little uncomfortable.

"Thank you, Mr. Cullen-"

"Edward."

"-_Edward_. You've really helped me out, you have no idea. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Edward guided her through the groups of people with the deft agility of a ballroom dancer.

"I must confess an ulterior motive."

Bella noticed the left corner of his mouth twitch.

"I came to this party tonight to speak with you about the possibility of perhaps contracting with Masen Industries. Your latest article caught our attention."

They had reached the coat-check, and Bella retrieved her ticket from her clutch and handed it to the attendant. Edward pulled his from his pocket and did the same. He briefly considered trying to get a jealous reaction from Bella by returning the attendant's unsubtle eye-fuck, but dismissed the maneuver as premature. Instead he smiled politely but briefly, and returned his focus to Bella. She was biting her lip, seemingly unconsciously, and appeared lost in thought.

_No, Bella, don't bite your lip. I want to do that._

The coat-check attendant returned with their coats. Edward threw his over his arm and opened Bella's for her to slide her arms through. She stared at him for a beat too long, plainly disbelieving. Edward stood patiently, smiling at her. He wasn't going to budge. Slowly, grudgingly, she turned, and awkwardly extended her hands behind her. It struck Edward then that no one had ever done this for her before. _No wonder she's so distrustful of the "gentleman" thing_. Of course, it occurred to Edward she had every right to be distrustful.

Bella shrugged into her coat and Edward frowned as he put his on as well. Her trench was stylish, but it seemed far too lightweight to protect her from the damp and cold waiting for them outside. She didn't even have a scarf.

He whipped the thick wool scarf out from around the collar of his coat.

"Oh, no no, that's alright. I had one earlier, but the wind caught it on my way here and it blew off, and I couldn't run and catch it in these heels."

Oh yes. He'd noticed her heels, alright.

"Please, I insist. I can't have you catching cold."

She moved to take the scarf from him, but he pressed on, carefully winding it around her slender neck. He attentively, intensely studied her reactions as he accidentally-on-purpose let his fingertips glance against her skin.

Her mouth opened slightly, and her pupils dilated. She had not suffered any trauma to the head in the past hour, and the lighting was constant. Edward knew there was only one possible explanation: Bella Swan was aroused. The feeling was mutual.

He couldn't contain his grin. He remembered the old adage about the journey of a thousand miles, and pressed on.

Edward reached for the gallery door and held it for her. She walked through it into the wet winter air. He followed after and he paused, waiting for the valet to return. Bella turned to him.

"You were saying something about a contract?"

"Yes. Would you be willing to meet with me another time to discuss it in detail?"

Bella opened her mouth, ready to disagree and say 'goodnight.' Edward saw her reluctance. _Time to play my ace_.

"We suspect an employee of selling trade secrets to a competitor. I know you have a particular fondness for code-breaking. None of the cryptographers we've hired to date have been able to crack their encryption."

"Oh. Well. Um."

Bella wanted to say 'no.' He hadn't acted professionally when he introduced himself. The idea of a challenging civilian code, however, was tempting. _It's like he knew I couldn't resist that._

"Yes, I suppose I could meet with you. When?"

"You have my card. Set something up with my assistant."

Edward smiled at Bella, a smile that grew into a huge grin as the valet returned. _And not a scratch on her! He's earned his tenner_. He took the keys from the young man, who was looking at Edward with a mixture of awe and jealousy that Edward understood completely. Edward turned to bid Bella a good night. He found her shaking her head, smiling wryly.

"What is it?"

"A Vanquish? Really, Edward?"

She walked over to Edward's car and ran her gloved fingertips gently over the curved body of the trunk.

"A silver one, too. Of course."

Edward looked at her inquisitively. Her dossier didn't include any information about her preference for fine automobiles. Bella seemed more amused than anything else. _Is she __**laughing**__ at my baby?_

"Yes, a Vanquish. Would you like a ride home?"

Edward was fishing. He wanted to know what she was thinking.

"No, thank you. I'll take the Tube. Don't you find a V12 is wasted in the city?"

"I try to stretch her legs out on the B-roads as much as possible. Do you have something against Aston Martins, Bella?"

"On the contrary, I think they're beautiful cars. Sexy. But they've begun to replace the 911 Turbo," she nodded her head at a bright yellow Porsche down the street, parked across two spaces, "as _the_ Douchebag-mobile. I mean, if you have the cash for a Vanquish, you could certainly step up and get a DBS or DB9- but you didn't. You got a Vanquish, and one can only presume for the- ah- _Vanquish-y-ness_ of it."

Most women drooled over his Vanquish, and begged to ride in it- and then to ride Edward himself- but none of them actually knew anything about cars, let alone had such a strong opinion.

She looked directly into his eyes, her own limpid and guileless. She said, her voice full of challenge, "I bet that car gets you a ton of pussy, Edward Cullen."

Edward heard the teenaged valet make a choking sound. Edward stared. _What the fuck do I say to that?_ He'd chosen to play a suave, powerful businessman tonight, a man who would just grin and casually proposition her now. He couldn't make himself do it, though. His mind was stubbornly replaying the same two seconds when Bella Swan said, "pussy."

He'd come to the conclusion that he'd made a huge strategic error; it was time for tactical retreat.

"I think Jeremy Clarkson was right, moving all the Astons down a step on the Cool Wall. Kristin Scott-Thomas wouldn't accept a ride in that car from a man she just met, and I don't think I will either. Good evening." Bella turned and left, walking briskly to the nearest Tube station.

Edward crossed in front of his car and adjusted himself- he hoped discreetly- as he opened the driver's side door. _Jesus. She watches "Top Gear." _

He went through the routine of starting his car in a daze. He sat there with his foot on the brake, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. If Edward had placed a bet on how this evening would've gone, he would've just lost a lot of money. He shifted the car into first gear, and eased out into the quiet, nearly-empty streets of South Kensington. Edward knew two things.

Bella Swan was going to be his most challenging mission yet- and he needed to fuck something. Now.

**AN:** As always, I need to thank my beta ( abadkitty) and pre-reader ( JadaPattinson) for their help. However, this chapter needed a lot of tweaking, and these two fine ladies went above-and-beyond the call of duty helping me polish it. Both can expect lots of fancypants chocolate for Christmas.

There are several concepts in this chapter which I anticipate you may have questions about, but I promise everything you _need_ to know is in the text itself. However, if you'd like to learn more, visit the blog: chekovsgunblog dot blogspot dot com. It's all in the "Resources/Glossary" page- and of course, feel free to check out the tuxp0rn slideshow while you're there.

I'll be going out of town (Happy Birthday to me!), so I'll see you all in two weeks with Chapter Five! It's a doozie.

**Bonus Points:** Tell me what the yellow Porsche's number plate is.


	5. Chapter Five

A BULLET FROM CHEKOV'S GUN

**Legal BS:**_ The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2012 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved._

_All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended._

**Author's Note:** I will never put an AN at the head of a chapter unless it's vital information, like now, so please listen up. This chapter contains an E/non-B lemon. I know some people are universally squicked-out by non-canon pairings. I understand that. I can be like that. I know it's only been five chapters, and some of you may not trust me as an author enough yet to let me take you _there_. I thought about including this for a long time, though, as well as had several long conversations with my beta about it. I don't post this frivolously, using a taboo _just_ for taboo's sake. I have decided that this chapter in its entirety (I considered fading to black) was too important for understanding what's going on in Edward's head, to be cut. I'm asking you to take a risk, because I feel the potential reward is worth it. However, if you just can't handle it, stop reading after the line break. You won't miss any major plot points, but you _will_ be missing out on some important development in my Edward's character. Also, I warned you about the content, so I would appreciate it if you curbed your urge to flame me. I don't mind if you disagree with my choices- feel free to tell me all about them in a review. I just ask that you be respectful. Okay, that's everything. On with the show.

**Chapter Five**

Edward Cullen was hunting.

Strobe lights suddenly started flashing in time with the beat and Edward tensed up, all his muscles hard and his body on alert. Civilians loved the sensory distortion of a nightclub environment; it made Edward feel anxious, too aware of his vulnerable position. He'd dodged too many bullets- literally- to be taken down while off-duty.

He scanned the dance floor. In between visual circuits from one to another of the three exits from the club and calculating the best egress route depending on foot traffic, Edward looked for a suitable candidate with which to complete his more personal mission: to get his dick wet, so he could go home. He couldn't truly relax until he did, and his mind was even more restless than usual, filled as it was with images of a smart-mouthed American girl. He hadn't been shut down like that since he started shaving every morning- a decade, at least.

He'd removed his tuxedo jacket and bow tie, and his dress shirt no longer looked freshly-pressed. The top two studs were now in his pocket, carefully exposing a small expanse of his hard chest. Edward sipped his whisky and leaned back on a long banquette, exuding ease and cocky self-assuredness. He knew from experience women responded to confidence- usually. Bella Swan certainly hadn't, and the memory had his jaw clenching. He was frustrated and hard, and it wasn't like he would jerk off.

His thoughts resembled one of the pieces of Celtic knot work he'd been pretending to admire just an hour previous: twisting and turning upon each other, looping around, leading him nowhere he hadn't been before. _She turned me down_. The tenor of his internal monologue was an uncomfortable mixture of incredulity and admiration: Edward couldn't believe she'd turned him down, but he kind of loved that she had. For a man who always got what he wanted, there was nothing so exciting as a challenge.

The Macallan burned down his throat, just like his finger where his skin had touched hers when he'd handed her his card. He rubbed his thumb over his forefinger, trying to remember the fading sensation. Slowly, tentatively, he brought his finger to his mouth and dragged it across his lower lip. Rough, prickly callouses rubbed against thin, soft skin, rasping with each movement. His eyes fluttered closed, and as his tongue darted out to lick his finger, hoping- longing- to bring even one molecule of _her_ into his body.

If he could taste her, maybe he could understand her. He smiled; he realized the futility of trying to _grok_ Bella Swan._ Stranger in a strange land, indeed_.

Edward wondered suddenly what it would be like to kiss her- just kiss her, simply because he wanted to. It was a foreign sensation. _When was the last time…?_

A girl dropped into Edward's lap then, like a bucket of cold water thrown onto someone who'd just fallen asleep. Edward's musing was interrupted and his attention snapped back into focus with vicious recoil.

Edward's hands had come up reflexively, and were now wrapped around the too-narrow hips of a giggling blonde. He smiled up at her, all cocky grin and lascivious intentions- but he was furious inside. Somehow, Bella Swan had again been able to dull his senses and cloud his presence of mind, this time without even being present. This could not be allowed to continue. It was suicidally risky. Bella Swan had turned him down. _Bella Swan, Bella Swan, Bella Swan _pulsed in his head, like a heartbeat he could feel in his ears.

"I guess I had more to drink than I realized. Hi, I'm Jessica, and I'm on vacation!" She giggled. "Oops, I mean- _on holiday_. Though I guess I'm not the only one having fun," she said as she ground her ass into Edward's lap, thinking his arousal was for her.

"Edward. Tell me, Jessica, what are you drinking this evening?" _Cosmopolitan_, he guessed, _or maybe a Flirtini. _

"Cosmos!" She giggled again. _Bingo. I haven't lost my touch after all._ He motioned to the waitress, smiling as he placed their drink order. Jessica noticed, and wrapped her arms more securely around his neck, pushing her cleavage out.

"I can't believe they let me up to the VIP room!" Edward couldn't believe it, either. This girl was not as classy as the usual clientele.

"At Crap-ussle, too! This is, like, totally the hottest club in town right now!"

Edward flinched. He couldn't help but imagine Bella's soft pink lips wrapping around, intoning _Crépuscule_ in her clear, quiet voice. He felt a moment's intense arousal- followed by an even more intense irritation. He truly did not understand how this girl had come to occupy his mind so thoroughly.

"My friends are going to be so jelly, I can't wait to tell them! I think they're dancing down there, but I bet not with a guy as hot as you!"

It appeared Jessica was not capable of speaking more than two sentences without punctuating one with a giggle. Edward bit back his annoyance. If he couldn't score with one American girl, he'd settle for another, for now. He didn't know how Bella Swan had already become so prominently featured in his thoughts, but it was time to fuck her right out of them.

Jessica was still babbling about all the things she'd done with her friends on her trip to London. Edward interrupted her smoothly.

"Would you like to dance, Jessica?" Edward asked, tilting his chin down, giving the appearance of looking up at her through his lashes. He flexed his fingers over her hip, applying gentle-but-firm pressure, while he curved his hand over, trailing the backs of his fingers over the wide expanse of thigh left exposed by her miniskirt.

"Huh? Oh, sure!" Edward eased her off his lap, letting his hands trail suggestively up her thighs and over her ribs. She shuddered lightly. He reached his hand slowly towards her, brushing a light touch along her cheekbone; he ran his thumb along her thin bottom lip, ignoring the sticky feeling of her heavily-applied lipstick.

Edward walked forward, stepping into her personal space, testing her receptiveness. He pushed her back, catching her as she tottered on her heels, onto the small dance floor in the center of the VIP room. He struggled to push out of his mind the image of Bella Swan walking confidently _away from him_, her long, toned legs, clad in black stockings, visible for just a second as the wind blew her coat up a little.

_And dear God, those fucking shoes. _

Jessica started grinding on him. Edward had to snap out of it; get his head in the game; nut-up or shut-up. All of those clichés.

The blonde was dancing, Edward supposed. There was no flow or grace to her movements. She was obviously running through a list of 'moves' in her head, so overtly sexualized Edward was almost amused. The subdued sensuality of the brunette strutting in his mind's eye was completely missing from the gyrating blonde in front of him. She performed some maneuver that could only have been gleaned from a hip-hop video, and Edward groaned. She thought he was aroused by her display. He thought that if he was going to do this, he couldn't look at her face.

He spun her around, pressing her back against his stomach. Edward ground his dick, apparently not as discriminating as his brain, into Jessica's ass, and she moaned softly as she dropped her head back onto his shoulder. He used his hands to guide her hips back, against him. Her arms wrapped around his neck; her perfume was sickly sweet and overwhelming. _It's time to get this over with_.

"Would you like to do more than dance, Jessica?"

He felt her tense, then relax. She nodded.

"Your place?"

"Not how you mean."

He'd been guiding her over the course of their dance towards his favorite spot in the club, the reason he frequented _Crépuscule_: a disused hallway with a mirror along one side and a notch in the dividing wall. It was used to bring in deliveries during the day, but served only as an Emergency Exit during the club's operating hours. He had long ago found the exact distance down the hall that allowed him to watch for the approach of other club goers without revealing his position. Seeing without being seen himself was very nearly Edward Cullen's favorite thing.

He guided the panting Jessica to the prescribed spot, preparing to enjoy his most-favorite thing.

-[This is the point of no return: put on your big-girl panties and read on if you have faith in me.]-

"Edward! Oh, Edward, you're so sexy! Oh my God, I am _so _wet right now!" Jessica had read in _Cosmo_ that dirty talk stimulates dopamine transmission, whatever that meant. She figured the word "dope" was right there, so it had to be good.

"Fuck me up against this wall, big boy!"

_She'd probably freak out if I gagged her._

Jessica moaned in his ear as she turned to face him. She was placing sloppy kisses up and down his neck, smearing her lipstick on his skin. _That's going to be hard to wash off_. Her breathy, porn-star moaning spurred him into action. Edward enjoyed the challenge of surprising a woman, prepared to go through the motions of faking it, when her cries became real. Edward gave them what the regular men in their lives couldn't. It was a point of pride.

"Oh really, baby girl? I'd like to feel that for myself." Edward made no move to reach under her skirt yet. Instead he pressed himself against her, feeling the unnatural texture of her implants against his chest. Edward was shocked that this bothered him- it never had before. Tits were tits. He slid his hands up her body and gripped her breasts firmly. As rubbed his thumbs over her hardening nipples, he found himself wondering how a smaller handful of soft, real, woman's flesh would feel.

_Would Bella's nipples be pink or brown?_

Edward groaned again, but Jessica didn't notice anything amiss. Her eyes were closed, head thrown back, as he rubbed her nipples through her shirt. She had no idea his head wasn't in it (not the one on his shoulders, anyway). She couldn't wait to tell her friends that the hottest guy in the whole club had fucked her up against a wall.

She hitched her leg up over his hip, wobbling drunkenly. Edward grabbed her leg, behind the knee, and kept massaging her breast with his free hand. He leaned in to kiss her neck. As he nibbled and sucked, Edward lightly ran his fingers over the tender skin on the back of her knee. He felt her tremble, and she gasped: a sound of real arousal.

_Good, I'm getting somewhere_.

He ground against her, trying to stimulate her clitoris with his erection, pressing her firmly against the wall. As he ran his teeth over the patch of skin below her ear, he opened his eyes and looked around. No one had noticed them here. He was still alert and aware, but that wasn't entirely unusual. He was sure he'd be able to relax once he was inside her.

She slid her hands up his body: over his chest and shoulders, up his neck and into his hair. Edward loved women tugging on his hair, but her acrylic nails were digging painfully into his scalp. He would usually nibble on her earlobes now, but Jessica was wearing large hoop earrings, and they were in the way. So instead, he released her neck and pulled back to look at her face.

Her head was thrown back and her eyes were closed. Her breaths were coming in pants, a tiny whimper on each exhale. She had a smear of lipstick on her cheek. Her hair was mussed from rubbing against the wall.

_She might actually be wet, now._

She opened her eyes and Edward nearly lost his hard-on. Gazing into her pale blue eyes, unfocused from drink and lust, he was overwhelmed with a sense of _wrongness_. This wasn't what he wanted, or who he wanted it with, but he _needed it_ regardless.

Edward wavered for a moment. He was exhausted, suddenly. Sleeping only a few hours over the span of several days was nothing unusual for him, so he didn't understand his sudden fatigue- though he suspected the reason was five-foot-four and in bed, probably, in Oxford right now. His tiredness was painful.

But he wasn't going to stop. He was suddenly furious at Bella Swan for fucking up the one thing he had just for himself, one of the only aspects of his life he hadn't surrendered to Queen and Country.

He was desperate, now, desperate to just let go and stop thinking already, for the mental quietude that only came to him during sex. He wanted to forget: the stress of his job, the susurrus of his dissatisfied conscience, and most of all, the way Bella Swan made him feel at that gallery. Edward didn't understand those feelings of warmth and safety, like solid, sun-baked sand under one's feet after a riptide scare on a seaside holiday. And the arousal: the burning intensity that made Edward feel primal, that made him want to throw away society and civilization and make her his, the way only a man can. Except that he couldn't, because Bella had walked away from him.

He leaned down and gave Jessica a hard, punishing kiss, aggressively pushing his tongue into her mouth. She seemed surprised at first, but after a moment, relaxed and kissed him back. His stubble rasped against her chin and lips. After a moment, she started to paw at his shirt, fumbling with the studs where she expected buttons.

Edward pulled away and grabbed her by the shoulders and whirled her around. He couldn't look in her eyes; she couldn't be allowed to see his chest. He slid his hands down her arms, grabbed her hands, and pressed them flat against the wall. She was panting, apparently excited by his roughness.

Edward grabbed the hem of her miniskirt and yanked it up, exposing her ass to the humid club air. He dragged his hands over the rough denim and down her thighs. A strong synthetic floral smell filled his nostrils, and he gagged a little. He took a deep breath in through his mouth; the flavor of aldehydes coated his tongue.

He pushed her thong aside as he slipped his fingers between her folds, rubbing her clitoris, stroking her bare pussy.

_"... I bet that car gets you a ton of pussy, Edward Cullen..."_

He shook his head, trying to will the unbidden memory away. He groaned. He rubbed his fingers over her clit as he teased her opening with his thumb. Edward grabbed her hip with his free hand and pulled, positioning her with her back arched, her feet splayed, hands still pressed against the wall.

"Stay there. Just like that."

He reached into his pocket for Edward Cullen, COO of Masen Industries' wallet. His fingers brushed against several acrylic capsules, each about the size of a grain of rice, clinking against his cufflinks. He pulled them out of his pocket and stared, horrified, at the listening device, RFID chip, and GPS tag in his hand. _Un-motherfucking-believable._

He'd forgotten to bug Bella Swan. He coughed out a laugh, disgusted with himself. He'd _forgotten_ about one of the primary directives of tonight's mission- for the first time.

"Baby?" Jessica turned her head, trying to get a look at him. _Why'd he stop?_ _Do I need waxed again? Did I douche enough?_

"I- uh- there's a condom in my purse... Shit! I think I left it in the VIP room! I should go get it-"

"Don't fucking move." Edward's voice was clear, low, and lethally forceful. He slipped the electronics back into his pocket before Jessica could see, and pulled out his wallet. He flipped it open, bypassing the cover ID MI6 had issued him, and grabbed the condom from the billfold. He slipped the wallet back in his pocket and quickly undid his belt buckle, then unbuttoned and unzipped his tuxedo pants- he tugged them, with his boxer briefs, down to his upper thighs. Tearing open the foil wrapper with his teeth, Edward stroked his cock, slowly, from base to tip. His heart might be saying "no," but his dick seemed to agree with his brain: whatever voodoo Bella Swan had worked on him was about to get fucked out of his system.

Edward rolled the condom down his shaft in three practiced strokes. He pressed his palm flat against the girl's lower back, making her arch harder. She had a tattoo of a leaping dolphin about an inch-and-a-half above her ass-crack. The dolphin was smiling and winking at Edward.

He guided his dick to her opening and slid inside slowly. He paused, waiting.

Nothing happened.

Sure, she felt warm and nice wrapped around him, and judging by her throaty grunt, she enjoyed being filled. But Edward was expecting peace of mind- and it wasn't coming. He was still painfully aware of the club patrons, how long this song had been playing, the mental timer that was keeping track of the several minutes he'd been in the hallway with this girl.

He pulled out, and pushed back in again. Jessica moaned and pushed back. He felt nothing more than a pleasant physical sensation in his groin.

_What the fuck? This can't be happening._

Edward gripped her hip tighter and slid his hand up her body, over her back and down her arm. He rested his palm over the back of her hand, pinning her in place. He thrust forward, rotating his hips. Again, harder, pushing Jessica forward. He was still thinking— about Bella.

With a long, loud groan, he began fucking Jessica as hard as he thought he could get away with. She was crying out with each thrust, and Edward listened for the pitch-change that would tell him he was hitting her G-spot. When he heard it, he began drilling into her exactly so. The very fact that he was thinking clearly about this, instead of moving by instinct, was indicative of how truly fucked-up a situation this was.

He grunted as he pounded into her. He didn't understand what was going on, and now he just wanted to go home and crash, which meant that the girl had to cum- soon. (Edward might've been experiencing a Class-A mindfuck, but he wasn't an asshole.)

Slipping his hand around her hip, he slid it down between her legs. Edward cupped her, holding her still as he ground into her. She was trembling- she was close. He started rapidly circling her clit with his first two fingers, one small circle to match each thrust. Her whimpering cries grew into screams, she shuddered, and fell apart into orgasm. Edward gave in and followed: a small, mild climax that didn't satisfy.

He had to get out of there right fucking now.

Edward held onto the condom as he pulled out, slid it off, and knotted it. He'd flush it later; he wasn't being a even little paranoid, disposing of his genetic material properly. Spies had been compromised by less, and he was taking enough risks. He righted his own clothing before helping Jessica with hers. He kissed her on the cheek and murmured his thanks, leaving before she could say anything in return.

He hurried through the crowded club, weaving through the gyrating bodies in distraction. He practically ran to his car, and sped all the way home to his lonely flat. Sleep wouldn't come for Edward Cullen that night.


	6. Chapter Six

A BULLET FROM CHEKOV'S GUN

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2012 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter Six**

The tail edge of a dream fluttered around in Bella's rapidly-returning consciousness; a firefly in a jar, its little light flashing bronze-y copper, black, and green. She awoke fully, groaning. She felt strange— a conflicting mess of subdued and excited. Her scalp was sore and her neck ached. She groggily reached up and rubbed her head, finding a braid she had forgotten to take down before getting in bed last night. As she rubbed her neck, the previous evening came rushing back in detail: a tall, beautiful man offering her champagne, a business card, his scarf.

Bella closed her eyes as she pictured him in her mind's eye. Edward Cullen- such a beautiful, flowing name- had a mysterious quality about him, a compelling authority, which she didn't understand. The way he'd shifted between being flirtatious and businesslike confused Bella, and she questioned what he _really_ wanted from her. He'd said something about a contract with his company. He'd said something about a _code_.

_It's like he knew I wouldn't be able to resist that._ Bella supposed that, given he'd read her journal articles, he could know about her cryptography hobby—it's not like she kept her meetings with Don Banner a secret. She looked over to her bedside table, where her clutch from the night before—and inside it, Edward Cullen's card—sat. As she did, she caught sight of the small digital clock. She was running late.

"Shit, schiesse, merde encore…"

Bella jumped up from her bed and ran into her small ensuite bathroom, swearing as she went. The flat she paid for with her boarding stipend was small, about average for students in London. Bella didn't mind. Any small discomfort was soothed by the immense pride she felt just by merit of being there at all: an Oxfordian, a Rhodes scholar. She recalled Charlie, at her going-away celebration at The Lodge, joking, "I was a Rhodes scholar too. I rodes my bike to school everyday." She'd groaned and rolled her eyes at the time, but hadn't been able to contain her smile. Her father's eyes had sparkled as he teased her.

"This is way better than being Prom Queen, Bella."

She looked at her reflection in the mirror as she brushed her teeth. There were still traces of makeup around her eyes from the night before, and her hair had one extra-frizzy section from where she'd left that braid in, but her expression was still excited and energized. The promise of an unsolved puzzle was intoxicating. Bella's brows furrowed as she spit into the sink, realizing she was thinking as if she'd already accepted the contract. No, she would consider it.

Still, as Bella showered, fragments of keys and ciphers floated through her mind. _He'd said I wasn't the first person they'd contacted. This must be a tough one._ She was giddy at the prospect, but suddenly sobered. It didn't exactly make sense. There were more prominent civilian code-breakers. The reasons he had given her didn't seem to gel.

_Wait a minute. __**Did**__ he give me a reason? _ She replayed their conversation in her mind as she toweled off, her perfect aural recollection recalling each of his intonations, Edward Cullen's particular speech patterns. He was a Londoner, with a private school education. Something about his speech was slightly _off_, however, something Bella couldn't quite put her finger on. Her best guess was that English was his second language, but had been speaking it from a very young age—but that didn't seem right either.

No, he hadn't given her a reason for seeking her out, specifically.

Bella gazed at her reflection in the mirror again. Her hair was damp, and the eye makeup was now completely gone, but the strange light still lit her eyes. _Boring brown eyes. Boring brown hair._ She ran a comb through her hair, slowly detangling it. _ Pale skin. _She rubbed the seemingly-permanent indentations her nose from the pads of her reading glasses. _How much does a girl have to read to need glasses at twenty-five? _Bella closed her eyes, a wave of melancholy washing over her. _Why would a man like __**that**__ talk to me? I'm no good for anything but dusty tomes and Don Banner._ She closed her eyes and sighed. _No._ When she opened her eyes again, a determined young woman was looking back at her._ No, Bella, stop it. That's not true. Yes, you're smart, but you're also kind and caring._ She stared hard at herself.

"He'd be crazy not to want you."

She nodded to herself and turned, returning to her bedroom. Saying it, out loud, did make Bella feel better, though at the time her mother'd suggested affirmations, she'd scoffed and called the idea 'crystal-gripping hippie bullshit.' Renee had just smiled at her daughter's characteristic snark, and blessed her in the name of the Goddess.

Bella picked out her clothes for the day. When Bella put on her bra, she suddenly recalled the way she'd felt when their fingers brushed together, skin-to-skin: nervous, tense, _excited_. Her nipples pebbled and she felt flushed. As she smoothed her tight, dark-wash jeans over her thighs, she remembered the way his fingertips had pressed against her lower back as he helped her escape Mike Newton. Smoothing her tank top over her stomach, she pictured his slack-jawed stare as she turned to walk away from him, after she'd ridiculed his car. Bella winced at the memory. _Will I never learn not to say what I'm thinking all the time?_

She gathered her gear into her dojo bag, taking her ID out of her clutch. Fingering his card, she carried her things out into the front room, an open space shared by a kitchenette and Bella's sitting room. She flicked on BBC1, setting the news to a nice background level. More headlines about an explosion in a warehouse in southern France and the man who'd been captured there (who'd been taken into custody and not seen since) dominated the eight-o'clock hour.

Bella stared at the bottled protein shake in her fridge. Just the thought of the chalky aftertaste had her eyes flickering over to her breadbox, and the deliciousness within it. She sighed, caving. She got a crumpet out and popped it in the toaster oven to warm up. She started filling her electric kettle, that most English of appliances, continuing past her usual high-water mark. It was a two-cuppa type of morning.

She settled the kettle in its cradle and retrieved the clotted cream and preserves from the fridge. Bella heard her father's voice in her mind, as clearly as if he were standing next to her, sipping his bitter, black coffee.

"You sure have gone native, Bells."

Chuckling, she nodded and had to agree. "All I need is a Pimm's and a huge hat, the US Embassy will revoke my passport."

Bella made a mental note to call him that evening, hopefully catching him before he left for the station. She wondered if he'd be wearing his blue "University of Oxford" t-shirt when he went fishing with Billy Black tomorrow.

The little paper rectangle on the counter drew Bella's eyes, again and again, as she fixed her breakfast. Her thoughts wrapped around the opportunity the card represented like iron shavings in a magnetic field. The lure of a good puzzle was nearly impossible to resist, and instead of cautioning her, Edward Cullen's strange behavior only thrilled her more.

Bella found herself mentally referring to him by his full name, letting _Edward Cullen Edward Cullen Edward Cullen_ swirl around her mind like a fine red wine in an oenophile's goblet. She said his name aloud, experimentally, and the four syllables tasted like the Saint-Emillon she'd had during her trip to Paris with Dartmouth's French Club. She wondered if he'd prefer to be called "Edward" or "Mister Cullen" in the office. She hoped for "Edward."

A knock on the door pulled Bella's attention away from her synesthetic fantasy. Her tea had cooled. Sipping quickly, she walked to the door and checked through the peephole to see a horrifying, fish-eyed vision of her best friend sticking her tongue out two inches from the other side of her door.

"It's only me!"

Bella began unlocking the numerous anti-burglary measures on her door. Like the martial arts classes Bella was presently headed to, brand-new locks and a lifetime supply of Mace were Charlie's going-away presents last fall.

"Oh, hi, Ange," she said as she hugged her friend.

"Sorry I'm running late, it was past midnight when I got home last night." Bella neglected to mention how much later she was up thinking about an auburn-haired stranger.

"That's okay, sweetie. Oooh, do you have another?" Angela pointed to Bella's crumpet.

"Sure, help yourself." Bella refilled her tea and poured her friend a cup as she fished the last one out of the breadbox.

"The jam and stuff are in the fridge. Hey, grab me a shake for lunch, all right?"

"So how was the party?" Angela asked, motioning with her head towards the door.

"Oh. Uhm. It was… fine." Bella busied herself with pouring their tea into travel mugs and double-checking her things in her bag.

"Well?" Angela elbowed Bella lightly, trying to get her friend to spill. The two girls quickly descended the three flights of stairs to the street. Bella relished the chance to warm up her muscles a little before the long bus ride to the dojo.

"Spit it out, Bella."

"Well, at the party last night, there was a boy. A man." Bella felt flushed at the memory of his intensity.

"Oh God. You're not talking about that twat Newton, are you?"

"Hah, no, though he was there, his Porsche and puka shells in tow. No, this was someone else. Someone… different." Bella paused, trying to find the words to explain to her friend something she couldn't really even explain to herself. She was granted a brief reprieve as they ran to catch up to the bus. After they settled themselves, Angela turned once again to Bella, looking at her expectantly. She wouldn't push Bella under normal circumstances, but Angela felt that her somewhat-shy friend needed a loving shove into the spotlight now and again, the better for her to shine.

"He was… He was the most fucking handsome man I've ever seen, Ange. By a wide margin. He was perfection." Bella's gaze lost its sharp, intelligent focus and drifted over Angela's shoulder, towards the window.

"What was his name?"

"Here, gimme your phone?"

Bella took Angela's phone and tapped on the screen, entering **edward cullen coo masen industries** into Google Search.

"Edward Cullen," she said, grateful for the chance to say his name aloud again.

"He said he wanted to hire me to work for him, as a cryptographer. Here, this is his company."

Bella and Angela bent their heads over the screen, looking at the Masen Industries website.

"'Providing Advanced Security Solutions since 1956. Tasked with transitioning criticality-of-purpose to back-end management.'What does that even mean?"

"It's corporate Newspeak, so probably not a damn thing." Bella tapped **Executive Bios**.__"There, that's him."

"Holy shit."

"Yeah." Bella tapped the portrait, enlarging it.

"No, seriously. Holy shit."

"Imagine him wearing the most incredible tuxedo."

Angela coughed a little, choking on the last of her tea, and her cheeks flushed.

"Did you fuck him? I would have fucked him. If it weren't for Ben, I mean."

Bella was used to her friend's straightforward nature, but couldn't help blushing and looking away.

"You fucked him? You did, you whore!" Angela laughed and playfully smacked Bella on the arm.

"Shhh! Jesus, Angela, ow! No, I didn't fuck him, but I thought about it, okay? You should've heard the way he introduced himself. Ange, he used the "cunning linguist" line." Bella looked at Angela, raising her eyebrows.

"Aw, really? That's Newton-esque. What'd you call him the last time he asked you out?"

"Uh, a one-man sex toy stimulus package. Then he snickered, 'cause I said, "package," and started bugging me relentlessly to let him watch. So that backfired."

"That's right! I can't believe you haven't kneed him in the plums yet."

"I've been tempted." Bella was staring at the ginger on the phone's screen.

"Bella. I _know_ you didn't let him get away with that _line_. What manner of witty comeback did you have for this Edward Cullen?"

"I called him an asshole-"

"That's _it_?"

"-and then he helped me escape Newton. He helped me put my coat on, and gave me his scarf. And then I told him he drove a douchebag's car. A Vanquish. I mean, honestly."

Bella breathed in through her nose and closed her eyes. Angela was a little stunned. Her friend's sarcastic wit, usually razor-sharp, had been dulled to butter knife-level today, and she let this guy off unscathed— relatively speaking?

"Tell me more about him, Bella."

"He was so tall. Hair like dirty pennies. But it was his eyes. Green eyes, burning, like the aurora borealis. Something… something… happened to me, when I met his eyes. The tiniest sliver of my skin touched his when he handed me his card. That touch, the beauty was… unbearable, just like Camus said. The way he _looked at me_, a steak that wouldn't make a starving man sick. I've never felt so— so primal. It was the most incredible thing."

"You're doing it again, Bella," Angela said. _She's lost inside her mind again. Come back to me, Bella._

"Huh?" Bella looked back to Angela. "Oh. Did I at least make sense?"

"No, it wasn't too bad. I honestly don't mind, but I know your advisors do. Keep talking, Bella. This guy must be really something, to make you quote an Absurdist."

"He was. Is. Absurdly handsome- humanly impossible. But…" Bella cocked her head, something just occurring to her. "He looked _bewildered_, like he didn't even understand why he was looking at me like that. That part I could relate to. Ever since we parted ways last night, I've felt so strange. Like myself but not-myself. Utterly discombobulated. I've never lusted for someone so badly in my life, and my heart is urging me to just rush ahead and bang him, because I know he wouldn't say, 'no,' but at the same time, I feel I should be cautious. Angela, I don't _think_ I should be cautious, I _feel _I should be. In my— in my gut, I guess."

Angela had no idea what to say. She looked down at the phone.

"It says here your Edward went to Cambridge. So he's not perfect after all."

"Ha, ha." Unconsciously, her first two fingers hovered over the phone's screen, tracing Edward Cullen's angular features. Without touching, she caressed his cheekbones, his strong eyebrows, his full lips, the razor's edge of his jaw. Out of his presence and away from dominating, charismatic influence, Bella was able to see that Angela was actually right, in a way. He wasn't physically perfect, as she had first thought: his nose was out of alignment. It looked as if he'd caught a nasty left hook and it had healed that way, without being professionally set. _Why wouldn't he have it set? A COO could get into a fight, I guess— _remembering the fluid grace with which he moved, Bella immediately dismissed the idea that he might've tripped, or walked into a door— _but wouldn't a man that pretty be vain enough to have it set professionally? Maybe even see a plastic surgeon? With a job like that, I'm sure he'd have the cash._ Bella shook her head at herself. Her intuition was flickering; she felt uneasy. But intuition was not a scientific thing, and her scholarly nature didn't allow her to indulge those feelings by examining them further.Bella went back to reading Edward Cullen's _curriculum vitae _on Angela's phone.

"He's only twenty-eight, but he's COO—genius or nepotism, I wonder."

"You said he wanted to hire you? You haven't finished your degree yet, and then you're going back to America, right?"

"Well, he said it was a contract, something about encoded information from an employee stealing secrets. But it doesn't make sense, Angela, because he said some other code-breakers had worked on it, but they hadn't been able to break it. I don't know who he asked, but why me? Surely there are others, more experienced code-breakers, hell, people who officially _are_ code-breakers. This is just a hobby for me."

"Bella," Angela sighed. "It sounds to me like you're just making excuses. Poor ones, at that. Look, I understand your not wanting to work for the military, Bella, but this is more than just a hobby to you. Do you remember the time you called me at three in the bloody morning, just as Ben was about to make me see stars, yammering away about I can't-remember-what code?"

"I apologized for that."

"That's not my point. Codes are something you're passionate about, and this could be a great opportunity. You've amassed a little bit of notoriety, someone could've recommended you. You'll never know until you ask. Bring it up when you call him."

"_When_ I call him?" Bella handed Angela back her phone and they stood, preparing to get off the bus.

"Yes, when. You and I both know you will, you just need to get over your stubborn self." The two young women clambered off the bus and hurried through the cold to the dojo. They rushed inside—freezing rain had just started falling.

"I don't know if I could be professional, Angela. You saw him."

Angela was tying her _gi _top and smiling. "Then maybe you shouldn't be. There's nothing to be done until you call him. In the meantime, good workout is just what you need to take your mind off things. Gain some perspective. Come on, Bella." Angela nodded her head through the hallway, out onto the dojo's practice floor. She bowed in, and Bella followed suit.

"You're right." She grinned at her friend. "Time to kick some ass."

**AN:** As always, I would like to thank my pre-reader Jamie ( JadaPattinson) and my beta, Sara ( abadkitty). Some chapters just flow more easily than others, and this wasn't one of them. Their help was invaluable, as was Cris' ( judo_lin). She doesn't have a title, because we don't like to cheapen what we have with labels. (If you haven't read Cris' stories _Midnight Carnival _and _Wisp_, you and I are gonna have words, not nice ones. They both have a whimsical genius— albeit manifested differently— that is refreshing and unique. She also writes fanfic for Glee, which I can't say I've read, but I'm sure are brilliant. I'm a one-fandom hoor, what can I say?)

A huge thank-you to Ooza ( o_Oza) for pimping my fic on her blog, gardenofsin dot net. She's since posted a bit about the TwiFicMeetUp (who's going? I'm trying!), but you'll see her not-at-all-rambling review/recommendation second-from-the-top. The direct link is here: bit dot ly / P1mn4T (Take out the spaces and pop a http in front, you'll be good to go.) I don't need to tell you guys about Ooza's stories, _Inside Man_ and _Adore, Adore_, do I? Because the very idea of your not reading them is ridiculous, right? Right.

Thanks to thimbles ( shellisthimbles) for her help with one of the stranger questions probably ever asked: What sort of wine would a character's name taste like? She's writing a great story called _Figmentum_ that has the potential to be _High Fiedelity_-level in its beauty. It's only in chapter 4 as of writing this, so we'll just have to wait and see. This is one story whose premise I damn well wish I came up with myself.

I also need to take the time to thank my readers. Thank you for sticking with me after the last chapter. The overwhelming majority of you were unerringly supportive, to the point of being angry about my feeling the need to even put the warning in my Author's Note. So thank you. Incidentally, to date I've only gotten one— ahem, anonymous— review saying they were flouncing. Thank you. Thanks for trusting me and supporting my choices. I hope you enjoyed this update.

And please do visit my story blog, chekovsgunblog dot blogspot dot com, for tuxporn (I always head up the chapters there with "inspirational" images) and also a handy Resources page where I explain any terms, themes, or British slang that may be unclear. I do my best to make everything understandable through context, but just in case it's not— or if you want to know more— mosey on over. Okay, that's all! Bye for now.


	7. Chapter (Double-Oh) Seven

A BULLET FROM CHEKOV'S GUN

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2012 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter (Double-Oh) Seven**

Edward prowled through the hallways at MI6HQ, radiating an aura of _don't-fuck-with-me_ profoundly enough to create a meter-wide bubble of personal space in every direction. The events of the previous evening were a tangled snarl in his head. His entire body was tense, aching with fatigue. Discipline kept his eyes open, despite the sharp, scratching pain that urged Edward to keep them closed every time he blinked.

He mashed the _Up_ button at the bank of lifts. Edward saw his own scowling reflection in the chrome of the lift door, and tried to change his expression to something more suitable for his environment. He couldn't. His internal monologue was screaming, his various failings playing on a constant loop in his mind's eye. _The agony of defeat_. Jesus, he was getting punchy.

With a _ding _and a _whir_, the lift doors opened. Edward saw Alice already inside, her neon orange thumbnails tapping rapidly at her phone's keyboard.

"How was Fashion Week?"

"Get fucked, Cullen."

Edward paused for a second too long before responding. Flashes of Bella and Jessica appeared: rich, brown hair and bottle blonde; dark eyes and watery blues; soft, porcelain skin and orange spray tan.

"Ohh, did I strike a nerve? Looks like it. I never thought I'd see the day, but it looks like Edward Cullen needs to get laid."

"I did get laid."

"Just not well?"

"Something like that."

Edward could feel himself frowning. He opened his mouth, suddenly desperate for the chance to talk with someone—anyone—about the tumultuous feelings consuming him, when the door opened again and Alice stepped off the lift.

"I've got some footage of your target for you to review, when you're done with Esme." With that, Alice hurried down the hall, still looking at her phone.

Edward rode the elevator for a few more floors, lost inside his mind. Short memories flickered like flashcards, images of Bella worked as indelibly into his brain as the multiplication tables. The sound, as she walked away from him, of her heels on the slate floor in the gallery, and again on the sidewalk outside. Her voice, laughing in English and French. _I bet that car gets you a ton of pussy, Edward Cullen_.

When the lift's doors opened again, Edward walked out onto plush carpets and dark wood paneling, a dramatic contrast to the shiny chrome and modern glass of the lower floors. This environment was an expression of its mistress.

Edward could barely manage a grin at the secretary, whose eyes roamed over his body familiarly, appreciatively. She picked up a slim black pen and held it up to her lips, knowing exactly what she was doing.

"She'll see you now."

"Thank you, Lauren."

Edward realized that this was the point in the script where he should make a lascivious comment that Lauren would pretend to be insulted by, but nothing came. Edward Cullen, consummate flirt, couldn't think of a damn thing to say. So he just nodded.

The office was decorated in muted neutrals. The carpet was a café-au-lait color, so soft that Edward's shoes sunk down a little with each step. The walls were a gentle cream. File cabinets lined one wall, bookshelves another two. Nestled against another wall, under a painting of a pastoral scene, was a silver tea service on top of a cherry wood side-table. A cherry wood desk was positioned near the back of the room, and sitting behind it was Esme Platt, GCMG, OBE. One of the most powerful women in the world was currently looking at Edward with a faint, almost indulgent smile and a raised eyebrow.

"How's our newest consultant working out, Cullen?"

"Well, she's not. Not yet. But she will be. Soon."

She noticed her agent's tense posture, and the dark circles under his eyes. Bad night. Esme knew of her prodigy's predilections, and had no problem with them— as long as they were effective. In a rare magnanimous gesture, Esme decided to cut Edward some slack.

She gestured to one of the brown leather chairs in front of her desk, and Edward took his seat. There was no bullshitting Esme Platt. Her soft, maternal features lulled her targets into a false sense of security—she was beautiful, but not intimidatingly so. She knew how to minimize her physical impact, seeking to be underestimated. Being able to so carefully manipulate others' expectations of her had made Esme a fantastically effective operative during her youth, even more so now in her role as Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service.

She was not a woman you'd believe capable of shooting a Russian spy between the eyes at point-blank range—but Edward had seen her file. He knew that, if necessary, Esme would have him killed, without hesitation.

"Care for a biscuit?" Esme pointed to the tin on her desk.

"Yes, please, ma'am."

"Your report indicates you were shot down quite summarily. So, she resisted the infamous Edward Cullen Charm Offensive."

Edward's muscles twitched only the slightest bit with the desire to run his hand through his hair- a habit he thought he'd long since suppressed. Still, Esme saw. She regarded Edward, her gaze shrewd.

"I think she'll be even better for us than Hunter thought."

Edward felt his limbs begin to tremble with anticipatory adrenaline. Fight or flight.

"What did Hunter think, exactly?"

"That alone in a big city, a continent away from home, she would be easily persuaded to use her considerable linguistic talents for us. It sounds, however, as if she's not quite so malleable as 0-0-1-3 would have believed."

Edward opened his mouth, wanting to reassure his boss that the situation was being handled, that it was under control, that he was on top of it— that thought was accompanied by a delicious visual entirely inappropriate for the setting— whatever Esme needed to hear to keep him on the mission. The thought of being separated from Bella, even after just thirty minutes in her company, made Edward feel slightly panicked.

Esme held up her hand to stop Edward. When she saw that he'd keep silent, she started fingering the elegant silver pen on her desk.

"They call our work 'intelligence,' Agent Cullen, but really, that's a bit of a misnomer. Feelings are just as important. The heart can overrule the head, especially in charged, stressful situations like the ones we most often find ourselves in. You have the training to override those emotional impulses, but our targets do not. That is why we are can manipulate them with such ease. We're trained, yes, but we're still human. Humans are emotional creatures. Incidentally, this is why women make the best spies."

She smiled at Edward, and reached for her cup of tea. Lifting it to her lips, Edward smelled oranges, spices, and Assam. _Esme_.

"Any operative— even with only minor experience— can suppress or ignore their feelings. A mature operative, however, knows when to use his feelings, to use your own empathy to understand the motivations of your targets. Understanding _why_ you do what you do is the single most important thing you will learn in this life, Edward."

This is not the first time Esme has called Edward by his given name. He cannot think of any other agents she did that with. Neither can he think of any instance occurring where anyone else could hear.

"So you want me to be some _sensitive_, in-touch-with-his-feelings ? A monk with a Magnum?

"Of course not. We both know your Walther fires a 7.65 millimeter round."

_Did— did Esme just make a joke? __**Now**__?_ Edward barely had time to be puzzled before Esme continued.

"You must use reason. But an excess of dispassion can be just as detrimental as an excess of passion. Ignore your feelings at your own peril, Edward. Especially regarding certain targets."

Edward sighed and looked down. "I don't think I can persuade her to work for us. Not with the usual methods."

"Then sod the usual methods! Haven't you been listening, Edward?"

Esme stood abruptly, and walked to the window. She looked down at the Thames, at the choppy brown water and tourist's guide boats. She waited.

"It's more that—" he caved and ran his hand through his hair, tugging, "that even if I could persuade her— which, maybe I could— it's that I wouldn't _want_ to. Use, er, the usual methods, that is."

Esme turned and looked at him briefly, bitch-brow firmly in place, giving him a look that more clearly articulated her thoughts than anything she could've said: _fucking finally_.

Edward wanted to say more, tell Esme that he couldn't stop thinking about this girl, that she was beautiful, intrigued him, challenged him, turned him on beyond what was healthy or sane. He held his tongue. It was inappropriate, and Edward felt pretty certain that Esme already knew whatever he would've told her, anyway.

"Pardon my boldness, ma'am, but this doesn't seem like the typical sort of advice you'd give your agents."

"Edward, I'm sure you know I'm— different, with you, than with my other agents. I'm sure you have your own theories as to why," she said, her hand resting lightly on her lower abdomen for a moment.

"Humans are not robots, despite that your uncle's fervent wishes otherwise. Humans are emotional creatures," she repeated.

Edward nodded. Esme gazed at the river.

"Carlisle said he was going to ask you to dinner."

"He hasn't." Esme closed her eyes. The sadness inflected in those two words was so deep, Edward felt an echo of it in his chest. He longed to go to Esme, to comfort her, but he dare not. So he sat in silence as Esme ran her finger over her delicate bone china tea cup. Her back stiffened and she whipped around, stalking over to the cabinet where her teapot was resting. She put her cup down and bent over, opening a door on the front. She perused the contents briefly, and said, still facing away from Edward, "You're a Macallan man."

She pulled out a bottle of the very same, and two crystal lowball glasses. She poured a healthy measure in each, and passed one to Edward. He took it without question, and waited for Esme, controlling his curiosity.

But the topic was closed. "Whatever you decide to do, Edward, you need to be sure of your course. There's no room for confusion, here. Get your shit sorted," said Esme, enunciating each word crisply, "and pursue your goal tirelessly. You must play your role, whatever it is, impeccably. No more mistakes or miscalculations like your introduction. You underestimated her, Edward, that much is clear. You mustn't do that again, if you are to succeed. If this agency is to succeed.

"You," she gestured to Edward, including all that he was, "are enough danger, enough excitement, enough of the exotic— you need to give her some constancy. Are you following me, Edward?"

"Yes, ma'am." Esme sipped her whisky, and Edward knocked his back, unable to savor. His mind was a confusing place to be: in some ways, more settled, but in others, more turbulent. He needed time— and another drink.

Esme breathed in deeply, and exhaled slowly. Edward knew he was about to be dismissed.

"Go speak with Alice about the preliminary surveillance."

"Yes, ma'am." He stood and returned the glass to the drinks cabinet. As he was stepping out the door, he heard Esme's quiet voice, "And tell Car- say hello to your uncle."

Edward walked past the receptionist without a word.

**AN:** A big thank you to my beta, Sara ( abadkitty), who had to do something she called "real life" and "a job" all week, and couldn't get this chapter back by my Wednesday post date last week. I don't really know what those things are, but she assures me they're important, so I'll take her word for it. She did work on this during her first minute of free time, and for that, I'm even more grateful than usual for her insight and suggestions.

What's all that alphabet soup after Esme's name? Find out on the Resources page on my blog, chekovsgunblog dot blogspot dot com.


	8. Chapter Eight

A BULLET FROM CHEKOV'S GUN

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2012 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter Eight**

Edward's fingers itched with the need for violence. He could feel the urge, growing in direct relationship to his stress level, to reach for his gun. The weight of it, the cold steel, would feel so comforting in his hands. It would ease his mind, too-full now with Esme's advice— and always, since the moment he first saw her look up at him in that gallery, Bella Swan. Dangerous thoughts swirled in his mind, and mostly, he refused to acknowledge them. They taunted Edward with their sweet impossibility. _I would, what, tell her the truth? No. She'd be horrified. The truth is horror._

He knew he'd have to visit the range when he was done with Alice. Edward always felt better after discharging a few dozen live rounds. After briefly considering perhaps trying a new firearm, Edward decided the familiarity of his Walther was best.

Edward walked down a long hallway, deep in the heart of Headquarters. Past one checkpoint, then another and another. Opening a door, Edward was finally in Carlisle's laboratory, wide open and sterile-white. His uncle sat at a lab table, wearing a set of high-magnification glasses and soldering equipment in his hand. He was working on some kind of electrical circuit.

Edward waited until Carlisle lifted his tools from the green silicon board.

"Carlisle."

"Edward, my boy! How've you been?" Carlisle removed the glasses and stood, walking over towards one of many sets of locking cabinets set against a wall. Sighing, Edward followed. Edward had finally gotten Carlisle to inquire about others, but the part where his uncle actually stayed to listen to the answer was proving more difficult.

"Esme asked after you. She said you had something for me?"

Carlisle faltered as he reached for a smallish black box. "Oh. Really? Ah. I—I spoke with her the other day."

"So she said."

Carlisle stood stock-still, staring at the box his hands were frozen clutching. His mouth moved minutely, the beginnings of the dozen things Carlisle wanted to say—but couldn't decide upon—forming in his mind and being discarded. Edward was used to this. He gave his uncle a moment, hoping he'd collect himself. When it didn't happen, Edward coaxed him gently.

"You didn't ask her to dinner like you said you would."

Carlisle looked at Edward then, actually looking him in the eye—not Edward's forehead, nose, or an indeterminate point over one of his shoulders.

"I tried, son, I really did. I practiced what I was going to say, like you said. But when it was time, when I was actually _there_, looking at her, I just couldn't! The words wouldn't come out."

Edward sighed and put a hand on his uncle's shoulder.

"She's just so beautiful, Edward."

"She is," Edward said, nodding. "Do you think, maybe, you'd want to speak with a— "

"So here we are. I know this will be inconvenient for you, having to plant the devices again— "

Edward opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it.

"—But the performance on these is markedly improved, so I think it's worth it."

Carlisle opened the lock-box, removing two small, Lucite cubes lined with black foam. In each, a small metallic bead the size of a pinhead reflected the harsh lab lighting.

"These are the most advanced microtechnological listening devices the Q Branch has yet developed. Experimental Designation ED-190-1."

Carlisle walked over to a lab table loaded with electrical instruments and set the black lock-box on it. He plucked out one of the two clear plastic cubes.

"This is an RFID/GPS dual tracker. I have it assigned to our most robust satellites, accurate to less than a foot." Carlisle switched on a monitor, a geographic map of the world appeared on screen. A white dot blinked the upper-central part of the display, repositioning to the center when Carlisle tapped at the screen. Zooming closer and closer still, Edward watched as Britain became clearly visible, then southern England, then metropolitan London and the Thames, and finally individual buildings. The light blinked, constant. Finally, when just the roof and modern angles of MI6HQ were visible, Carlisle stopped.

"Go ahead. Walk around. I had you meet me here to demonstrate it, there's no Faraday cage surrounding this lab."

Edward had no doubt that Carlisle's invention worked, but would never deny his uncle one of the few true joys he had in life: a positive experimental result. So he walked around. The white dot mimicked his pacing.

"Great work, Carlisle."

His uncle grinned, radiating nerdy delight.

"The ED-190-1 is better in several key respects than its predecessor. Over the 2.4-5mHz range, for example, signal strength is improved by 6.4%, and quality by 2.9%. With regard to multiplicity—"

"What about the other one, Carlisle?" Edward just wasn't in the mood today for his uncle's long-winded technological rambling.

"Oh yes, of course," Carlisle said, picking it up. "This is a listening device, and I know how you love your listening devices. Experimental Designation ED-063-0. As you can see, it's tiny. You will be able to hide it easily, but it requires a secondary power source. I'm sure you'll think of something, you're nothing if not thorough. It has an effective range of 10 meters, though the outer edge of that is a little fuzzy, and of course affected by obstacles. Transmission range up to 500 meters, depending on the power source you choose. I was having some trouble with the last generation of these devices—"

"Carlisle."

"—They developed some inexplicable interference problems, and those seem to be resolved here, though I am still uncertain as to their—"

"Carlisle!"

"What is it, Edward, I'm trying to explain—"

"Your phone is ringing."

"Oh." Carlisle walked over to the telephone on the lab's wall. "Carlisle Cullen. Yes. He's here. I'll send him—immediately, I understand. Goodbye, Al—oh, she hung up.

"Alice Brandon insists you go see her immediately. She says there's something you need to see."

Nodding, Edward gathered up the two devices, and slipped them in his jacket pocket. He claps his uncle on the back, a gesture too parental for their nominal roles in life, and walked toward the door.

Carlisle calls after him, "Hurry, Edward, she seemed… excited, or maybe frantic?"

Edward waved over his shoulder and picked up his pace, striding toward the part of the building where Alice was working. Electromagnetically shielded, this was where all of the sensitive communications were overseen. The most secret were further in, so Edward had to backtrack a bit to find the petite darkling of a girl sitting in front of a bank of flatscreen monitors.

Alice Brandon did not work at the Q Branch any longer, officially. She was one of the rare agents to make the transition to active field duty. She was grateful for the opportunity, and proved it by devoting herself unreservedly to her work: a deep cover in Paris, monitoring the black market for pillaged antiquities and artwork used to finance terrorism. Her cover required she attend lots of glittering parties and other social events, which were truly awful. The worst, however, were the fashion shows. Alice detested fake things—she had enough of that in her 'day job'—and loathed frivolity. And those socialites, the idle rich, those _models_ were nothing but faux and frivolous.

Plus, most of those gloating bitches were a foot taller than Alice.

Whenever all that got to be too much, when Alice felt like she was about to snap, she returned to Q Branch. The smell of ozone from heated printers was comforting, a comforting silicon embrace. Alone with her monitors, watching life being lived all over the world, Alice aways felt her purpose be reaffirmed. These people, the average bloke who thought of espionage as nothing more than Saturday evening entertainment on the telly, were why she did what she did.

Alice saw Edward approach out of the corner of her eye. He looked rough, worn-out. Despite her move to active missions, Alice knew she could never perform the constant offensive action that Agent Cullen did. She wasn't afraid—she knew she could kill if the situation required it—but it wasn't in her fundamental nature. She just wasn't a double-oh.

_Oh my God, the rumours are true_, she thought as Edward walked in. _He was shut down_. She did a quick inventory of his appearance: beautiful suit, impeccable posture, confident gait. His shoulders, though, weren't squared back like usual. His eyes were down.

"What do you have for me, Alice?"

"Lots, but this bit of footage just came in, and I thought you'd like to see it." Alice typed rapidly and it was then that Edward noticed Bella on the large screen. It looked like she was in an open square, probably a quad in Oxford. Edward mentally reviewed Bella's schedule. A girl—_her friend, Angela,_ Edward thought—had her arm slung around Bella's shoulders and was guiding her away from a blond boy. The boy was rubbing his cheek. Bella's fists were clenched, and she seemed to be trembling.

"Bloody hell, that's Mike Newton. Did he say something to her? Did she slap him?" Edward felt his own limbs begin to tremble. _If he hurt Bella…_

"I'm sorry, I couldn't get one of the mobiles mic'ed up in time to catch what he said. I'm scanning text messages now, I'm sure the students' gossip will tell us."

"Don't let Esme hear you say that. You know that shit's illegal without a warrant."

"Mm, she'd get me an exception," Alice murmured, rewinding the footage. After she pressed play, she turned in her chair to another interface, presumably to hack into the SMS inboxes of innocent Oxfordians.

Edward watched Bella and Angela cross the quad. Newton approached them. Bella appeared to deflect him, just as she had at the cocktail party that felt like ages ago to Edward, not less than 48 hours. Edward watched Newton grab her arm—adrenaline flooded his system for the second time today. Fury was a bitter metal on Edward's tongue; every muscle was tense.

_If he hurt Bella, so help me, he will hurt in turn._

On screen, a few moments in the past, Bella shook off Newton's offending hand and pointed at him angrily.

"Here's where the audio kicks in," Alice said.

_"—ton. What can I say? You've figured me out. There's nothing I find hotter than a guy who spends longer in front of the mirror than I do. When I think of your utterly artificial, bland appearance, my heart skips a beat. And I'm just so thankful for whatever nepotistic impulse got you admitted here, because then I never would have met you, Newton, and experienced the joy of your heavy-handed, graceless come-ons—really, the highlight of my day. The way you constantly remind me of your family's money, it just really appeals to how—total whore that I am—I'm just here to get my MRS degree, you know? I'm so glad I can finally cast off this illusion of being interested in scholarship, a career doing something good in this world! What a relief it'll be to just be taken care of! I can look forward to spending my days in a gin-and-tonic haze, like your mom, pretending not to see your progressively-younger conquests as you pathetically, desperately try to hold on to your youth. It's every girl's dream, really."_

_ Bella turned to leave, studiously ignoring the eyes of the quadful of students who'd stopped to watch the exchange. She and Angela walked briskly, but weren't out of earshot before they heard Newton say, "Fucking cunt, she's gotta be a lezzer, that's the only reason she won't get with me."_

_Bella clutched her hands into fists, stopping short. Angela put a cautioning arm around her. Taking a deep breath, she turned slowly, facing Newton again. She stalked forward and struck him hard across the cheek._

_ "You're even stupider than I thought. Sarcasm is evidently beyond your ken, so let me spell it out: the only thing I wanna get with you, Newton, is a fucking restraining order. And I will, too, if you ever speak to me again."_

Watching Bella lay into Newton had given Edward a massive hard-on, which he was pretty sure wasn't healthy. _Jesus Christ, that was hot_. He had to turn away from Alice, or he was going to give her an eye-full. He busied himself with finding the paperwork necessary to legally surveil Bella Swan, and thinking of the Queen, Ricky Gervais, and cricket. If anything would kill a boner, it'd be cricket.

"Looks like Newton asked her if she wanted to fuck, in front of the whole quad, too, according to LoLoMalry1983. God, what an obnoxious screen name."

His mobile phone rang as he signed the appropriate requisition forms. He was irritated, and didn't look at the display that indicated the call was being forwarded from his office at Masen Industries. He answered it in his typical brusque fashion, "Cullen."

"Edward!" Alice whispered harshly.

She was pointing at her monitor, on which Bella Swan was standing nervously, chewing her lip—_on her mobile phone_. It looked like Alice had found her at a café, and the feed was from one of the many CCTV cameras throughout London. He scrambled to correct himself.

"Cullen," _shit!,_ "Edward Cullen."

**AN: **Thanks to my beta, Sara ( abadkitty).

If you'd like to see pictures of MI6HQ, or of Robert Pattinson wearing a tuxedo, check out my blog at chekovsgunblog dot blogspot dot com. I even have a Resources page for more explanation of stuff I mention here, like the spy technology.

Bonus points if you catch all my Twi-nerd references in this chapter.

I'm going to the _Twilight_ movie marathon tomorrow. Anyone else?


	9. Chapter Nine

A BULLET FROM CHEKOV'S GUN

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2012 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter Nine**

She'd called, just like Angela had said she would. The allure was too great.

Walking down Leadenhall Street on a rare bright Monday morning, Bella was glad she'd gotten off the bus several stops early. She'd been downtown many times since moving to London, of course, but she'd never had the opportunity to see this particular building up close.

And now, as she entered the incredible, modern tower on St. Mary Axe, Bella was impressed. The glass facade sparkled in the winter sunlight. To Bella, it looked like a beacon, a fantastical star guiding her way home.

Through the lobby, up the lift, past reception; Bella's excitement grew. She felt—mostly—like her old self again, the inexplicable funk she'd settled into the day after first encountering Edward Cullen now just a memory. She didn't know why she'd been so quiet and withdrawn. The fact is she had been—past tense. Finally telling Newton off had helped. Now, all Bella felt was nervous anticipation, eagerness to start work.

Bella approached the well-dressed man who was sitting, typing rapidly while chatting on a wireless headset. Unsure, she paused in front of him, but he was already saying goodbye and rising from his chair. He fluttered over.

"Oh my God, you must be Bella Swan! Hi! I'm Eric Yorkie, and I'll be your liaison to Mr. Cullen. Wow, do you put red highlights in your hair? Girl, they're fabulous! Oh, let me look in the natural light, that's how you spot _all_ the falsies, don't you know." He tugged Bella over by the window, pulling gently on a lock of Bella's hair, inspecting it.

Eric Yorkie, an agent a few years Edward's junior, had his own preferred cover: flamboyantly gay. He called it 'the Eddie Izzard Theory of Camouflage.' It was a risk, but the rewards thus far had been greater than the hate he'd experienced from homophobes. Though he was straight, he'd made several good friends in LGBT communities around the world (as much as one can when lying about one's fundamental identity), and he'd enjoyed the savage beating he'd given two such narrow-minded men who'd tried to corner him and several of those friends leaving a club last year. He had a standing invitation to one of the poshest flats in Berlin now.

Bella quickly recovered from her speechless reaction to Eric's greeting. She laughed and introduced herself formally, and Eric made a show of bowing over her hand and kissing the back of it.

"The only thing hotter than those shoes, baby girl, is the way they make your stems look in them. You really need to raise the hem on this skirt a little, a few inches. Show off the goods. Oh my God, I saw the most fuck-hot leather mini in SoHo the other day, it would be _perfect_…"

"I'm not entirely certain that would be appropriate for the office, Eric."

Edward strode up to the pair, both of whose heads turned to watch his approach. As soon as she saw him, Bella's thoughts scattered nearly as completely as they did the first time she saw him. Only her extensive mental preparations tempered Bella's reaction to Edward Cullen in a dark, pinstriped three-piece suit. A lesser man his age would look ridiculous, like he was playacting in his father's clothes. Not Edward. No, Edward Cullen looked like he was born to wear gabardine. The tailors on Savile Row must brawl for the chance to have him on their fitting platform.

Just like the first time she met him, Bella's gaze travelled from Edward's feet, taking in his black dress shoes—his big feet causing a flurry of directionless profanity to blow through her mind like so much snow—up his long legs as he strode toward them. His gait was confident in the absolute. Peeking out from inside his jacket was a shiny silver watch chain, and Bella's mouth went dry. _A fucking watch chain._ She forced herself to look away, only to have her attention snared by the strong line of his broad shoulders. Bella had to stifle a whimper. It really was all becoming too much.

Once more, Edward's hair looked to Bella like he'd just thoroughly worked over a secretary in a broom closet. _Maybe he had. I'm sure the girls here throw themselves at him._

Bella had been sure that there was nothing more to her reaction to Edward Cullen than his unparalleled good looks, until she was in his physical presence again. The air of power that radiated from him was both intimidating and thrilling to Bella. The way he carried himself signaled for all to see that he was master here, and Bella was so turned-on, she had to resist the urge to squeeze her thighs together.

Until she met his eyes. Bella's lust diminished to a bare hum in the back of her mind as she regarded his expression. The greens of his eyes, lambent with mischief and sex the last time she saw them, were now flat. To Bella, his eyes were cold. Eric knew better, and recognized the guarded look of resignation on the point agent's face. There was no chance Bella, perceptive though she may have been, would have picked up on it.

His conversation with Esme played and replayed in Edward's mind, drowning out Eric's tittering. He'd spent that whole day, and the following night (while in the company of a good bottle of Scotch) considering the Chief's words. Ultimately, Edward's decision was made by Bella herself, dressing down Newton the Twat. She was so strong, so good. Edward knew he had to bring her into the fold—exactly how, he was still unsure—but he couldn't help but feel she would be tainted by association with the agency and espionage. That she deserved better. He didn't know how to reconcile the two urges, loyalty and compassion. It hadn't been until there was more Scotch in his body than in the bottle that it occurred to Edward that if there were some way for Bella to choose to join him, fully aware of who and what he was (and somehow able to overlook the evils of both), that things might work out between them. Then he'd passed out.

Now, looking at the girl in question—the one who'd caused him so much turmoil—he was more conflicted than ever. Edward wanted her, but he also needed her safe. The sudden protective instinct overshadowed even his desire to keep her away from the more morally-questionable aspects of his life. Edward's job was dangerous. If she came to work for MI6, her life would forever be at risk.

At that moment, Edward became resolved. He'd complete his mission, but Esme and the SIS would just have to be satisfied with a short-term contract. That would have to be enough.

Edward extended his hand. Bella watched the play of emotion on his face curiously, and had been about to enquire after him. When she automatically reached forward to shake his hand and their fingers touched, that strange feeling of being caught in an electrical storm returned. It was even stronger than it had been the night they met. Bella gasped lightly as she saw Edward's eyes alight again, quickly, before he seemed to get ahold of himself.

"Miss Swan, I'd like to apologize for my behavior that night in the gallery. I must've had more champagne than I realized."

"It's fine, Mister Cullen."

"Edward," he corrected again, smiling slightly.

"Edward," Bella repeated, also smiling.

Eric was smiling as well—grinning—and Edward could practically hear the schoolyard taunting that was sure to start as soon as Bella was out of earshot.

"Well, let's get you settled in, shall we?" Releasing the hand Edward didn't realize he was still holding, he gestured down the hall. Eric stepped forward, and with a wink in Edward's direction, led the trio to what would become Bella's office. He unlocked the door and handed Bella the key.

"Here you go, doll-face. Home sweet home for the next six months."

"Six months? Oh, wow."

The office was plain, spare and undecorated. There was a blonde wood desk with a computer on it, a black chair, and some filing cabinets. Behind the chair, however, was the reason for Bella's exclamation: spreading out in incredible panorama, was a view of London worth killing over. The modern skyscrapers downtown gave way to lower buildings, interspersed with greenery from gardens. The Thames felt close enough to touch; Bella realized her hand was pressed against the glass, next to one of the criss-crossing steel struts. The weather was beautiful—crisp and clear—for the moment. But London being London, there were clouds, heavy with rain or maybe snow, in the distance.

Eric cleared his throat to get Bella's attention. With a glance at Edward that was clearly meant to be taken as a fist bump, Eric walked forward, pulling a triple-folded set of papers from his inner suit pocket. As Eric explained the broad strokes of Bella's contract with Masen Industries, Edward lingered by the door, watching Bella. She seemed nervous when she first walked into the room, but now she was settling in. When Bella pulled out a pair of glasses to read the contract, Edward was struck with a feeling of warmth in his chest. She was so sure of herself—in her element—here. She waded through the Latin and boilerplate with ease.

Edward watched as Bella pulled her pen out of her bag and made notes in the margins. Her fingers—nails clipped short and painted dark red—curled around the barrel of the pen. The small annotations were made in an elegant cursive. Edward had studied handwriting analysis. Basic forging skills were a part of any spy's knowledge base. He eagerly regarded every looping _L_ and the swoops of her upper-case _G_. Her handwriting was as beautiful exactly the same way Bella was: erudite but open; strong but still a touch vulnerable. Edward was shocked when he realized he'd been so captivated by Bella as she wrote that he hadn't even looked down her blouse when she'd leaned over.

Bella and Eric appeared to be wrapping things up, so Edward pulled himself from his thoughts. He cleared his throat and said, "So, it's a little bare, but feel free to decorate however you like."

Eric looked questioningly at Edward, and Bella said, with the air of one exercising their patience, "Yes, Eric mentioned that already."

"Yes, I had just been telling Bella that we want her to be comfortable here at Masen Industries."

"Oh. Right. Well, I have to get back to work. Eric will send me reports, but I'll check in with you every few days, Bella, assuming you sign the contract."

"I need to read it, but it looks good from here," she said.

"Good. Well then, welcome to the company," he said, walking into the room at last. Edward extended his hand a final time, trying and failing to prepare for that shock he expected to feel when touching Bella's skin. _There it is_. Electricity, or an ice-burn, but thrillingly pleasant.

"Glad to be here." With a final nod for Bella and Eric, Edward turned and walked out.

That Friday, Edward got a phone call around lunchtime as he sat in his spacious office, bored out of his mind.

"Edward Cullen," he answered, as he wondered if he could go visit Bella again.

"Get down here _now_!"

"Eric? What the hell?" His inquiry was met with only a dial tone.

Panicking only slightly, Edward rushed from his office and down the stairs—there was no way he was waiting for the lift—and walked as fast as he could get away with through bustling hallways to where Eric sat, reading a report at his desk. His hand was in his highlighted hair, and he looked pale under his perfect tan.

"What is it, Eric? Is—Is Bella all right?"

"She asked me if she could go to lunch early. She said she had her report ready, and, I mean, I said yes," Eric said, looking up at the senior agent. Edward didn't understand the contradiction between Eric's words and the look in his eyes.

"That's not exactly an emergency, Eric. She's supposed to send you progress reports at least once a week."

"It's not a progress report. It's a final report. She solved it, the whole thing."

"What the fuck? I told you to get her a hard one!"

"I did, Edward!" Eric shouted, standing up. "I went to Carlisle, just like you told me to!"

Eric took a deep breath and continued, more quietly. "Don't accuse me of incompetence. Your uncle told me it was an old Russian Cold War code, out of use but not declassified. It took a room full of cryptographers flush with paranoid defence spending four years to crack that. Four years, Edward. That girl did it in four days, by herself, in between rounds of Scrabble online."

Eric and Edward stared at the report in Edward's hands. Edward broke the heavy silence.

"She's a weapon. Iran, China, North Korea—the Russians, if they get uppity again. If none of them can ever communicate secretly again… They don't stand a chance."

"I thought—fuck, I thought she'd be some sort of super-translator."

"Me too. But no. She's a living, breathing Enigma machine."

Edward took a deep breath.

"She is Ultra."

**AN:** Thanks, Sara ( abadkitty) for betaing.

Never heard of the building where Masen Industries is located? Check out my blog, chekovsgunblog dot blogspot dot com for interior and exterior views. Yeah, _that_ building! Cool, huh? All that and more, including an in-depth look at exactly why Bella's such a BFD, if you're a little fuzzy on your WWII-era history. And tuxporn!

I know Eddie Izzard isn't gay. I was thinking more of the bit about the action transvestites, parachuting in, looking _fabulous._ "Oh, fuck! They've got guns, they've got guns!" Yeah, I can pretty much recite _Dressed to Kill_ from beginning to end, from memory. Because I'm AWESOME like that.

**N.B.**

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving here in America, so I have spent most of today cooking, and will be doing more of the same tomorrow—and then I anticipate sinking into a coma borne of food and exhaustion until at _least_ Saturday. So, there might be some delay in bringing you Chapter Ten. "But, Pagly," I imagine you're crying out now, "I need MORE BONDWARD NOW!" Well, dear readers, you're in luck. In case you haven't author-alerted me, I posted a special ABFCG side-shot, "A Whisper Against the Powder," just for Cris' ( judo_lin) birthday. I posted it as a standalone because it's quite a ways into the future, and there's some spoilerish bits going on. It's my _Midnight Sun_. Like the idea of Bondward getting horny, emo, and killy? If so, head on over to my profile to check it out. While you're there, you'll notice that I have also entered the Public Lovin' Fanfiction Contest, with my story, "The Eyes You Can't Ignore." There are some great entries, so read and vote!


	10. Chapter Ten

A BULLET FROM CHEKHOV'S GUN

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2012 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter Ten**

"Get in here _now_."

Esme's reaction was just as Edward predicted it would be: terse and forceful. Having left Eric to maintain appearances at Masen Industries, Edward rushed to headquarters. An important meeting was being called.

Walking down that same hallway was a man both more confused and more determined than the one who had made that same trip a week ago. The emotions jangling through his body, discordant like a struck triangle, are more than confusing—they scare the shit out of Edward. But he's nothing if not a determined man, and one conclusion Edward had come to was that he would protect Bella Swan from the world, and himself if need be. It was a difficult task that nothing would keep him from accomplishing.

Edward didn't even bother acknowledging Esme's secretary, though he noticed she looked unusually harried. Edward strode past her and opened the door to Esme's office without knocking. Inside, the Chief stood, staring out at the river, the late afternoon sun creating a halo's glow on her hair. Carlisle stood awkwardly off to one side, hands in his pockets, looking down—and occasionally sneaking glances at Esme.

And standing in the corner, drinking some Scotch with a cocky grin on his face, was James Hunter, Agent 0013.

"What the fuck—_why _the fuck is he here?" Edward demanded. His fists were clenched, his sight hyper-focused on James. Edward experienced, to a reduced degree, the same feeling he often felt when on an offensive mission: time seemed to dilate, not slowing down, but stretching out. His nerves were high-tension wires, transmitting lethal energy throughout his system. For Edward, the rest of the room didn't fade away; it greyed-out—clear, but de-prioritized. Everything and everyone else was relegated to the background as Edward focused on James and all the ways he could dispose of a body. A small clock on Esme's desk ticked out a tense score, a measured tattoo that ricocheted around Edward's awareness.

"Answer me! What the bloody _fuck_ is that tosser doing here?!"

"Edward!" Carlisle exclaimed, as disapproving of foul language as ever. "There's a lady present."

Edward refused to take his eyes of his target to address Carlisle, but in his peripheral vision he noticed Esme's cheek pick up into a half-smile.

"It's fine, Carlisle. Double-oh-one-three is here because he first identified Isabella Marie Swan as a person of interest to this agency. He happened to be meeting me already when your call came in, double-oh-seven." Hunter was still smiling, but Edward noticed a quick flash of irritation in his eyes. Edward felt the warmth of pride in his chest. He and James had joined the SIS at nearly the same time, but Edward had been chosen first to receive his double-oh. The numbers served, roughly, as a ranking, Edward's lower designation being markedly more prestigious than Hunter's.

"So, do tell us what you know," Esme said, turning to face the room.

"Target is the brightest young language student in the UK, possibly anywhere," he began, overtly swirling his liquor in his glass. Hunter's hand was in his pocket—a posture of exaggerated calm.

"That's in Bella's file, Hunter, it's hardly worthy of your being here." _Give me a reason, any reason at all_, Edward thought as he shifted his weight, minutely, higher onto the balls of his feet. The carpet's thick pile required compensation in his balance.

"What's not in _Bella's_ file," he continued, leering with malignant glee, "is her standing weekly meeting with her advisor, a man called George Banner. He's a linguistics professor there at Oxford, but he worked at GCHQ in the sixties. Don Banner also has a terrible gambling addiction, I'm afraid. Already lost a wife to it. As it happens, I was in attendance when your _Bella_ came up in conversation during a late-night card game, at which he lost spectacularly. Apparently, he and Bella like to play around with codes after their meetings. A bit of a hobby."

"What I believe double-oh-one-three is rather obliquely implying is that he believes Ms. Swan's extraordinary accomplishment this week is not entirely borne of her own genius. He thinks she was exposed to it at these meetings." Esme's voice was neutral as she relayed these facts.

"Is it possible?" Edward asked. He felt strange: both relieved and disappointed.

"According to his file," Esme said, crossing to her desk and picking up the document, "he worked at the Communications Headquarters at the time Carlisle says the code was being worked on. So it's possible." She looked to Edward's uncle for confirmation, but his head was still down.

"Is that correct, Carlisle?" Esme prodded him, gently.

"What? Oh, yes. It's possible. We've requested the activity logs from that time, to see for sure. It's troubling because while the code has long been out of use, it's never been declassified—or even downgraded in classification. This is obviously a security risk… Esme," Carlisle said, his voice soft on the Chief's name.

"But I—ah," Carlisle stopped abruptly, noticing the room's attention on him. Edward stifled a sigh. Men like Carlisle worked best alone, away from the focus of others—or the potential need to interact with them. Carefully keeping James in his peripheral vision, Edward walked the few feet to stand next to his uncle. Edward put his hand on Carlisle's shoulder. Through the rough fabric of Carlisle's lab coat, Edward could feel Carlisle's discomfort in the tension in his shoulders. He needed to get back to his laboratory.

"Keep going, Carlisle. What were you going to say?"

"Just that I, ah, sincerely doubt Ms. Swan had any sort of unfair advantage, even if she knew about the code beforehand. While this Banner certainly broke protocol by sharing his knowledge of the code's mechanics, it's not as if he showed her the code book, is it? Even if he had possession of a copy of the key—which you need to investigate—it sounds more like they spend their times at these meetings working on ciphers together, for fun. It wouldn't make sense that he'd have the 'answers,' then. He's not having her sit for an exam. She'd need an eidetic memory, as well, to be able to recall information as random as a cipher key, and there's no indication of that in her file. Edward?"

He shook his head. "No, I haven't seen any evidence of a photographic memory."

"'Eidetic' is really the proper term, you see, it's not just…"

"Thank you, Carlisle. Well, it seems that has been all cleared up, double-oh-one-three. You're dismissed," Esme said, and sat down at her desk.

"It's still possible that—"

"Go. Now." Arguing with that tone meant taking his life into his own hands, so James wisely shut up. He downed his liquor in one gulp and winced. Edward scoffed. _Pussy_.

James had to walk past Edward to reach the door, but he chose to pass much closer to the other agent than was necessary. Whispering so low that even Carlisle was unlikely to hear, James turned his head and said, "Saw a photo of Alice at one of those fashion shows. She has to cover her back—that must _burn_."

"_Bastard_!" Edward's fist connected with James' jaw with a sharp crack and he stumbled backward. Edward was already moving to hit him again when a firm hand on his arm stopped him. He looked up, unsurprised to see Esme holding him back; Carlisle was pressed against the wall.

"Did you see that, Chief? He struck me—he's unhinged! He's going to get someone killed, someday!" Hunter was rubbing his jaw, trying to look innocent and aggrieved—while angling the right side of his body away from Edward. He balanced his weight on his back foot while trying to create a smaller target. Such were the first two most basic preparatory moves involved in hand-to-hand combat.

"Like you almost did?!" Edward started forward again and Hunter brought his fists up.

"Shut up, both of you. You're a fool, double-oh-one-three, if you thought I couldn't read your lips from that distance, and I do not suffer fools in my Agency. I didn't catch every word, but I saw enough. You're suspended. Get out of my sight, go stick your head in the sand until I call for you. _Dismissed_."

The look on Hunter's face was livid, but Edward's temper was equally high. Faced with his and Esme's steely cold glare, 0013 had no choice but to back away. The pregnant sound of the door slamming behind him felt ominous, a lingering threat.

"You know what happened with Alice, my first mission out?" Edward spoke quietly, trying to calm down.

"I know enough. Come, sit." She gestured to her chairs and added, "You too, Carlisle." Both Cullens obediently sat. Both trembled, as well: one with rage, one in raw discomfort.

Esme assessed the two men in front of her. Edward and Carlisle were worked up; Edward needed time and Carlisle needed his gadgets. Decision made.

"Carlisle, you said you were having trouble with the devices you made for Edward?"

"Yes, and I don't know what's wrong," he said, sounding baffled. "The GPS seems to be working, but the listening device is malfunctioning. I—I'm sorry, I don't know why…" Carlisle trailed off, his mouth still moving, probably running over the figures in his mind again.

"It's true. The bugs at the office work fine, but all I hear is the classical music she plays as she works," Edward said, mentally cataloguing Bella's selections. She seemed to enjoy Bach's cello concertos and other mellow pieces. "And when she's in her flat, there's just static—or the occasional snatch of conversation. I can't hear her," he repeated. The frustration grew with his desire to know Bella Swan. He'd realized as he'd watched Bella work this week that he wanted to get to know her—actually get to know her, as any boy pursuing any girl would. Listening to recordings of her increasingly felt wrong—invasive—and Edward was almost relieved when Carlisle's new bug malfunctioned. A part of him still wished he could listen, though. Edward realized Esme was looking at him expectantly. Carlisle was still absorbed in his mental problem-solving.

"Chief, I'm at a loss. She was supposed to spend the next six months on this busywork. How can I keep her around so we can get her to work on our own encryptions—that's still our plan, right?"

"Edward," Esme sighed, "I hope it has occurred to you that Bella is far too intelligent to fall for our usual tricks for much longer. If we gave her more communications to decrypt under the pretense of corporate espionage, she'd clue into what she's reading. Sooner than later. In the meantime, I think it's wiser to have her—now that she's 'defeated your would-be saboteur'—design a new encryption algorithm for Masen Industries' secure communications."

Esme's voice was patient but firm. "And she should be read in, Edward. If we've noticed her, other agencies will have as well. There's no question that they'll want her, given her skills—the magnitude of which I have no doubt, by the way. The only question is why the Americans have let her be for this long."

"They might not've done. Perhaps she's turned them down. I've read her articles, and despite their scholarly detachment, she seems be contemptuous of their military-industrial complex. Is that the right term these days?" Edward asked, turning to Carlisle, who was dead to the world.

"She needs to be read in," Esme repeated more forcefully. "It's a suggestion now. Soon it will be an order, _Agent Cullen_."

Edward leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. His fingers were buried in his hair, tugging. "It's so dangerous," he said, closing his eyes and trying not to imagine the many horrible things that could happen to the girl. "You said it yourself, others will have taken notice of her. They won't all be good. At least the Yanks are on our side."

"I know what you're thinking of. It _is_ dangerous. Imagine if she fell into the hands of an enemy."

Edward's head shot up and he glared at Esme. Fear, anger, worry, hurt—he was a snarl of emotions. "She's too good for this."

Even before Esme's expression changed from indulgent patience to hard inscrutability, Edward knew he'd cocked that one up. "Too good?" _Oh, fuck._ _I know that look. That's her "what a load of bollocks" look_.

"You are dangerously close to making me regret my decision to bring you in on this, double-oh-seven. If she's read in, we can protect her from the worst of it. She's going to be snapped up by someone, and they may not be so careful."

Edward nodded. He knew this.

"Listen to me. Just… give her a compelling reason. Something worth overlooking the ugly parts." Esme's eyes were intense.

"I can't make her think she's in love with me. Not this girl," Edward said softly. He was preparing himself for being removed from the case, fully expecting to hear as much when Esme closed her eyes and sighed out a disgusted breath through her nose.

"Get out of my office. Go see your girl."

**AN:** Thanks to my beta, Sara ( abadkitty). And thanks, everyone, for your lovely Thanksgiving wishes! I had a good one. I found all that cooking to be rather… inspirational, let's just say. *shifty eyes*

Also, I want to thank my reviewers. I am grateful for everyone who reads this story, as a few more of you do each week. However, it's largely the same group of people who review each update. Thank you guys, so much. I have some EPIC reviewers (you know who you are), but even a short note is much appreciated.


	11. Chapter Eleven

A BULLET FROM CHEKHOV'S GUN

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2012 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter Eleven**

It was England, so it was raining.

The rain came down as Edward climbed into the back of a van parked several hundred yards down the road from Bella's flat in Oxford. The insular effect of night was not comforting for Edward as it usually was; instead of an embrace, the darkness was a police barricade erected during a riot. A wall to keep chaos from order. The air in the van was stale, thick with the metallic aroma of fags smoked down to their filters and the bitterness of over-brewed tea.

Edward had just finished re-bugging Bella's flat, this time with proven technology. Carlisle had been even more singularly focused lately as he repeated his experiments, trying to understand why Bella's listening devices weren't working. The problem seemed to be linked to Bella herself: when her flat was empty, the bugs within would transmit ambient noise, and none placed on her personally would ever transmit. Judging by the conversations sometimes overheard in adjacent flats, it seemed that Bella had a several-meters-wide sphere of influence surrounding her that somehow blocked the bugs' signals.

A junior analyst had suggested that perhaps Bella was an American agent. Edward had immediately shot the idea down, but put a call in to Jasper anyway. He was sure Esme was doing the same with her counterpart in Langley. Banner's impending interrogation might answer that question. Edward wished he could participate, but Bella herself was his priority, and she was due home any minute.

Edward was staring blankly at a wall of flat-screens linked to cameras monitoring the van's environment—as well as the target's—and wondering why he never took up smoking, when he caught a flash of movement. Camera L2 was showing Bella entering her building. According to Bella's usual schedule, she'd be returning from her karate classes now. He scanned her form. She was in jeans and a jacket, a kink in the left sleeve. Her shoulders curved inward slightly. Her high ponytail was loose and wisps of hair stuck out, some clinging to her face.

Edward watched Bella hitch her large gym bag higher up on her shoulder as she unlocked the door, glancing both ways. _Good girl, _Edward thought. He began making notes in her file.

**Attended martial arts class. Arrived at flat at usual time. 1922 hours. No deviation from schedule. **

Pause. A key in a lock. Edward strained to hear through the static in his headphones. He began, again, to adjust the levels on the sound filtering and enhancement software on his laptop, a task his musical training made him particularly adept at. Edward cocked his head to the side, listening hard—tweaking this and that—until he could make out the sounds of Bella locking her door behind herself. The extra chain and deadbolt both amused and frustrated Edward, for the same reason: they'd be little deterrent for someone determined to get in.

**Cautious. Installed extra safety precautions at front door. Father's influence?**

A clatter. Edward remembered Bella had a dish by the front door; she must've thrown her keys in it. Silence.

Pipes groaning. White noise. "Oh God," he whispered.

**Took shower. 1931 hours.**

Bella was naked right now. In her shower. Wet. Edward saw himself climb in behind her, wrap his arms around her. She'd make a joke about him being greedy, which he wouldn't deny. He'd press his nose into her hair and breathe her in. She'd smell different. Edward planned to get close enough to her next week sometime, after it'd rained, to find out exactly how different. He'd kiss her neck; lick the sweet water off her sweeter skin. He'd spin her around and hoist her up, wrap those perfect legs around his waist and press into her—

_Boop-boop, boop-boop_.

"Fuck!" Edward jerked back in surprise at the gratingly loud sound of a phone ringing coming over his earphones. He pulled them half-off his ears with one hand and realized the other was still rubbing his cock through his pants. _No._ With a great effort, Edward put his hands back on his keyboard. They were shaking with restraint. Bella's voice filtered through the static, scratchy and broken-up, and his hands were steady again.

**Phone call from Angela Webber. 1952 hours. Note: propose surveillance on Webber. Perhaps will overcome continuing transmission issue. Requires warrant.**

**Begins cooking supper. 1955 hours. Must identify favorite foods. File has no indication. **

Edward could only make out one out of every several words; he pitied whatever poor young analyst had to type up this transcript.

"Yes… great… ver—… no, I don't think… code… fishy? … Algorithm… yeah, sorry… fascina—… Edward…"

The spy perked up. He fired off a quick email to Carlisle. They had to get this technical snafu sorted.

"I know… hot! … Three… pin… Angela? … Cold and distant… don't understand…"

**Malfunction with heating/air-con?**

"Frustra—… yeah, I could… mixed sig—… want me to? … Just… me out already!"

**Consider more direct approach.**

"Yeah, Ange— … call Charlie … bye."

Bella's call with her father was short—seven minutes, by Edward's clock. Over the garbled transmission, Edward pieced together that their conversation was the two Swans simply catching up.

**Sprouts solidarity? Have tech clean up second phone call, timestamp: 2011 hours.**

After she hung up, Bella did the dishes. Edward softly sang along with her as classic American rock harmonized with the sloshy clink of cutlery.

After making one last note in her file, **She likes **_**Layla**_, Edward began to plot.

Bella hurried down the street, pulling her collar more tightly around her neck. It had rained all weekend long and the start of the work week hadn't even slowed the constant showers. She had pulled her cap down over her ears, but she still felt damp and cold: that particular British cold that chills the bones. Bella was worried that the dye on her new, heavier coat would run and stain her shirt blue—then she started thinking about woad design patterns amongst the Picts. Anything was better than continuing to theorize like a paranoiac about the several worrisome inconsistencies she'd noticed during her first week of consulting for Masen Industries.

The little café Bella had taken to frequenting after her late-afternoon shifts was a small, hip little place maintaining a level of obnoxiousness that Bella would never tolerate were it not for their truly superb coffee selection. As it was, she kept her head down and tried not to make eye contact. Considering the weather, Bella had wanted to catch the first bus back to her flat, but she was out of coffee at home. And she'd spotted Edward Cullen at this café, as well. Several times, not that Bella was keeping track.

She stepped under the leaking awning and into the deliciously warm interior. Bella looked around quickly, but saw only nondescript yuppies. Blond, blond, brunet. Chunky eyeglasses. Slim-tailored suits worn with hoodies. No flash of sexy ginger, no pinstripes or anachronistic watch chains to justify her errand. Bella sighed and entered the queue to place her order.

Overpriced-but-worth-it coffee in hand, Bella turned to leave the café and make her damp way back to her flat. Someone jostled her, and she nearly dropped her cup. Bella looked up, prepared to call the asshole out. As she did, the crowd parted like a cheesy high school movie, or that music video with the idiot from _Friends_. Sitting at a table next to the door, his back to the wall, was Edward Cullen, one of the youngest corporate officers in Britain. _Or so he says_.

He cocked his head, indicating he wished her to join him. Bella stared at him, eyebrows raised. (She reminded herself to Google the ability to raise just one eyebrow when she got home. Was it a born-with-it thing, or could it be be learned?) Edward grinned at her and made the "come hither" gesture with his index and middle fingers. That helped jerk Bella back to the present. Walking to Edward's table, she wondered what happened to the man who'd been so distant all week. The one who, when he was in her presence, regarded Bella so intensely her heart sped after the barest second of meeting his eyes.

She walked over and sat down opposite him, the entire time searching his face—and those mischievous green eyes—for clues as to the shift in his mood.

"Why don't you sit with me today?"

**AN:** Thanks to my beta, Sara ( abadkitty). I thought that music video was Kenny Loggins, but it was Bob Seger. Too damn bad.

This chapter contains a not-so-subtle shout-out to Cris ( judo_lin). LOCK THE FUCKING DOOR.

When I first started thinking about this story, I followed the canon timeline very closely. Since then, my story has morphed a little, though a lot of the same elements remain. It's right about now that the timeline starts to deviate, and I'll admit, I'm a little anxious. Tell me what you think.

Questions about information in this or any other chapter can probably be answered by the "Resources/Glossary" page on my blog, chekovsgunblog dot blogspot dot com. You can find me on Twitter: CallMePagliacci. Sometimes I even tweet about this story… but mostly not.


	12. Chapter Twelve

A BULLET FROM CHEKHOV'S GUN

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2012 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter Twelve**

"Well, this is ten pounds of awkward in a five-pound bag."

He chuckled, and the spell, that palpably tense atmosphere, was broken. "Indeed. How was your first week? I understand you had some remarkable success."

"Indeed," she said, mimicking his posh inflection. "Why didn't you ask me that at the office? This is what you asked be over here for?" Bella popped the travel lid off her cup, puckered her lips and blew on her coffee, cooling it before taking a sip.

"What? Oh. Ahh, no. I was—I wanted to ask you to dinner."

Bella was stunned for a moment. She felt that her relationship with Edward thus far resembled bungee jumping in Mexico: the excitement of freefall, the jarring confusion of being yanked back to the starting point, and then weightlessness again; the sense of danger that surrounded Edward like a cologne's aroma, just like strapping oneself into equipment with a dubious inspection record. Charlie's voice was too loud in Bella's mind ever to have allowed her to do such a thing, but she'd watched her fellow Spring Break-ers take that leap. Now Bella wished she had.

"On a date? Isn't there some sort of non-fraternization policy at MI?" Edward stiffened visibly before realizing what she meant. Masen Industries.

"What they don't know…"

"So, you're one of those people who says, 'it doesn't count if you don't get caught'?"

_Oh shit, tread carefully. _

"I think, sometimes, secrecy is understandable—or even vital."

"We're not talking about avoiding a sexual harassment lawsuit anymore, are we?"

He toyed with the idea of lying to her. Looking into her eyes, the intelligence—and compassion, perhaps even affection—was written in broad strokes of brown and gold, and Edward knew he'd never get away with it.

"No. We're not."

Bella smiled, first a little, then wider. "There. A little honesty. Didn't kill you, did it?"

"Not this time."

Bella leaned forward. "You're saying a lot of strange things. You know I don't understand them, and you say them anyway. I'm going to figure you out, Edward Cullen."

Edward opened his mouth to respond, to ask her not to try—or maybe to beg Bella to let him protect her.

"I think you _want_ me to figure you out," Bella continued.

"Perhaps I do." More honesty, and it made Edward nervous. He felt like he did just before he made blind contact with a target: jittery, alert, _high_.

"I think I know why. I have a theory."

"How scientific, Madam Curie."

"Aspasia is more appropriate for this instance, or maybe Gertrude Buck. But that's not the point. The scientific theory, even when applied to the nebulous field of Male Logic, requires a testable hypothesis."

"Are we gonna play doctor, Ms. Swan?"

"Sure. I'll be your psychologist, because you must be nuts to think I'd be so easily distracted."

"Shouldn't I be lying on a couch or something for this?"

"If you're a good little patient, maybe I'll let you lick a lollipop when we're done," she said, drawing out the Ls.

"You have an incredible bedside manner, I must say."

"You don't know the half of it."

"Oh, but I'd like to."

"Hm. Proposition one: you've been avoiding me all week."

"Am I that transparent?" _Maybe I should consider a new career_.

"You're Lucite. Your turbidity measures at less than 10 NTU. You're the inside of a blonde's head."

"Those are all very clear things."

"Oh, Captain Obvious, however did I recognize you without your cape?"

"A superhero? I rather think I'm the dashing villain. They're way cooler."

"I'll come back to that in a minute." Bella held up two fingers. "Proposition two: this _corporate espionage_ you brought me in to work on was far too simple. I don't believe that other specialists before me couldn't crack it."

Edward held his breath.

"The algorithm seemed typical of those used in the Cold War. I'm certain another analyst, especially if they had access to decryption software, would have seen it before."

"Had you... seen it before?" he asked, striving for nonchalance.

"No. But it had a—a feeling about it. It was reminiscent, in the same style, of codes I _had_ seen before. I don't know how to explain it," she said, sounding a little embarrassed for the first time since sitting down. It was strange for Edward to see her anything but preternaturally self-possessed.

"I just know. It just fits. When I see a code-any piece of language, really. It's like the tumblers in a lock when the matching key is inserted."

The lock-picks in Edward's pocket felt very heavy, all of a sudden, and were possibly on fire.

"Letters and words, they just make sense. It's like Chekhov's gun."

"What?"

"You don't put a loaded rifle onstage if no one is thinking of firing it."

Edward recalled that Bella's father had taught her to shoot, and he was glad there was a table in between them. He was making an "Proposition" of his own. It occurred to Edward that he was one sick fuck, but that image—Bella, in the Weaver stance, squeezing off a few rounds—was unbelievably hot.

"It means foreshadowing, and simplicity."

Edward ran his hand through his hair, puzzling out what Bella meant. He tried but couldn't quite manage to connect point _A_ to point _B_ on that one.

"What? I… don't follow."

Bella sighed and looked down. She nibbled on her lip for a moment before realizing what she was doing and letting go with a mental chastisement.

"I don't—never mind. Please forget I said anything."

"No, Bella," Edward said, reaching for her hand. He didn't know why he did that, nor did he know why he changed his mind and grabbed a sugar packet instead. "Please tell me."

"It means there can be no unnecessary elements, that every piece of information a writer includes must serve some purpose. Even modern writers who deliberately reject that advice and include red herrings—those distractions serve a purpose, confusing the reader and building suspense. When I'm working on a code, or trying to translate a piece of writing, that's how it is. There are tricks, little pitfalls built in, trying to confuse me, but ultimately everything adds up. One letter, or sequence of letters, always has to equal another letter. It's simple. Elegant. There's nothing unnecessary. As for the foreshadowing… when I'm working on something, I—remember what I was saying about getting a _sense_ about it? That's sort of what it's like. Foreshadowing, I mean. It's like I'm reading a story and I think, 'Oh, John's about to lose it all,' or whatever. It just feels like this or that is about to fall into place, and I try it, and it does."

"That," Edward said, pausing again to absorb what Bella'd said, "is the longest speech you've made since you told me I drove a Douchebagmobile. Actually, what do you think of the Ferrari F430?"

"What, you mean the one that spontaneously caught on fire?" Bella was glad that Edward didn't seem disgusted or bored with her word-vomit—quite the opposite, in fact. "The 599 is gorgeous, though."

"M5?" Edward was loving this game. He felt like such a regular bloke.

"Bo-ring."

Edward grinned at her. "And the Quattroporte?"

Bella grinned right back. "As a matter of fact, I happened to see one pull into the Gherkin's car park the other day. Beautiful dark blue color. An unexpected choice, I think. It's a little bit nuts as a car."

_She's on to you, Cullen_. Edward realized that he didn't really mind it, either.

"You like your cars with curves."

"Don't think you can sidetrack me with fast cars! Proposition three: your behavior towards me has been all over the map. Flirtatious one day," she gestured to the space between them, "to standoffish—distant the next. I guess that's a clarification of proposition one, or an extension of it.

"So," Bella said, her expression shifting from teasing to serious, "proposition four: all these little bread-crumb hints you drop. Secrecy. Feeling like a villain." Bella inhaled sharply when a feeling of presque vu prickled her mind—a tip-of-the-tongue sensation similar to the 'foreshadowing' she'd been describing to Edward. This time, she couldn't recall the piece of information eluding her, though she struggled. The more Bella realized how important this fact was, that it would be the lynchpin to her argument, the less tangible it felt in her mind. Realizing it wouldn't come if she forced it, she relaxed her mind and gave up the search. For now.

"Conclusion: there's something you're keeping from me. You're conflicted about it. That thing… you don't want to keep it from me, but you feel you have to. It's important—vital, like you said. It's bad, or negative. Scary. For all your bravado, you don't _want_ to be that villain. But… you… you're dangerous.

"I… don't like secrets, Edward. But I swear to you, I'll keep one for you. I swear it. Is there—is there something you'd like to tell me?"

People hurried into and out of the little café in central London. Workers travelled to and from their jobs. Someone fell in love; someone got their heart broken. All over the world, life continued as normal. Seven billion humans as oblivious to Edward and Bella as the pair were to them. Nothing existed outside their tense little bubble.

Edward chickened out. Fearlessly, he'd take on the Chinese Army bare-handed and alone, but the prospect of disappointment in those brown eyes that were rapidly becoming the center of his universe and the key to his happiness had him fucking terrified.

_She knows. Or she will. Just tell her. Ask her to read in._

"No," he said. Edward watched as the disappointment he was trying to prevent infused Bella's delicate features. He reminded himself that it was only a tiny portion of what the truth would bring her—a prick of pain, fleeting and comparatively minor. Even this small amount was unbearable, so Edward added, "Not now."

Bella nodded, her movements stiff and suddenly formal. She grabbed her coffee and bag and stood, Edward rising with her. "I'm going home now," she said. Edward nodded.

"See you Wednesday afternoon."

Bella looked at the door, then back at Edward. He resolutely kept his head down. She put her hand on his shoulder, feeling the hard bands of muscle underneath the smooth fabric of his suit jacket. He tensed.

"This secret… it might be bad, and you might be dangerous. But I don't believe you're bad yourself, Edward. I'll see you on Wednesday."

Edward sat and leaned on his forearm, lining it up along the little square table's edge. He gripped his knee with his other hand. To his cooled, untouched black coffee, Edward made a hushed confession, long after the café door had closed behind Bella.

"I think I adore you."

**AN:** Thanks to my beta, Sara ( abadkitty).

You can see all the cars I mentioned here, along with lots of other stuff, on my blog: chekovsgunblog dot blogspot dot com.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

A BULLET FROM CHEKHOV'S GUN

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2012 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter Thirteen**

The month of March bore down, itself a march; time moved forward with inexorable progress. Edward knew he running out of opportunities to make his move. Each day that passed increased the odds of _something_ happening to Bella. In his meetings with Esme, Edward had learned about "chatter." Nonspecific, directionless, but extant. So Edward focused his nervous energy into his job, as he always had.

Edward was obsessive in his surveillance and spent every night he could in the van. He'd had Angela bugged but the signal was still erratic around Bella. Carlisle was utterly lost in his work, trying to figure it out. Edward had taken to bringing his uncle lunch, properly afraid he'd forget to eat otherwise.

He wanted to bring Bella lunch one day, from somewhere nice, but she always brown-bagged it. Always salads, lean protein, but a different dressing each day of the week. Monday meant Caesar, according to his notes.

"Are you some sort of health nut?" Edward asked as he watched Bella prod her lunch with her fork during their weekly meeting.

"Oh, no. My dad had a bit of a scare with his heart last year, and, stubborn ass that he is, gave the doctors hell about changing his routine. His diet. I told him I'd change my diet too, that if I could do it, so could he. No way was Mr. Big Tough Cop going to be outdone by his 'bookish' little girl." Bella smiled when she made air-quote motions with her fingers.

"When was that?"

"Mid-September of last year."

"Just after your birthday," Edward said, picturing Bella on that rocky beach in his mind.

"Yeah," she said, drawing the word out.

"It was on your employee information," Edward rushed to clarify.

"Right. I'm sure the COO has the time to peruse every employee's application information before personally submitting it to HR." Bella put her hand flat on her desk, fingers splayed wide. She wanted to go over to him, to brush his hair back from his forehead-to make him see her, really _see_ her. To see everything she could accept; what she would give, what she would give up.

"Your dad—you love him?"

"Yes," Bella said. The _duh _was implied.

"Good, that's good. Well, until next time." Edward smiled at Bella and hurried from her office to his. He sat at his computer and added to the notes he was keeping on Bella—the notes he was no longer adding to Bella's file.

**Will make personal sacrifice for those she loves.**

"Dammit!" Bella massaged her temples with her thumbs, closing her eyes and shaking her head.

"Here," Edward said softly, but Bella still jumped. He was offering her a coffee.

"Hi. Thanks," she said, taking the drink from him. "It's not Thursday, is it?" Bella looked around her desk for a calendar, but it wasn't organized like usual. There were papers everywhere; pens of all colors; an exotic bird's plumage of Post-It flags.

Edward watched Bella go through her coffee mini-ritual: remove the lid, blow on it quick-quick-slow, take an experimental sip. Edward had asked the barista to watch the temperature carefully, of course, but it made no difference. Repetition did not make the sight of her puckered lips less enticing, either.

"No… no, it's Tuesday."

"Right, right. Tuesday. Sorry, my advisor had to take an extended leave-of-absence, or something, and my seminars have been all rescheduled all over the place. And I've been so lost in this here, I'm getting a little… punchy."

"Have you eaten?"

"Yeah…" Edward wasn't sure if Bella was listening. She looked at him, her mind somewhere in the middle-distance. Edward recognized the expression, it was a weaker shade of Carlisle's usual affect. He needed to draw her back to him, gently.

"How's it going, Bella?"

"Good, good." Bella shuffled some papers around and pulled out a bunch paper-clipped together. She started making notes in the margins. Every now and then, Bella would nibble on the end of her pen and each time, Edward would forget what he was trying to do.

"What are you working on? I mean, what specifically?"

"I'm designing your new encryption." Bella clasped her hands in front of her and slowly raised them over her head, stretching. Her back arched, a sliver of her stomach was visible beneath the edge of her sweater.

"Is your belly-button pierced?"

"What? Oh," she tugged her sweater down. "Yeah. Um, so anyways, this code… I've nicknamed it _Planaria_, because it's a rolling code."

Edward tried to come up with a coherent, intelligent response. "Uh huh."

"You know, planaria? Flatworms? They regenerate, so if you cut bits off, they'll grow back. Like with a rolling code, bits are always being dropped and… grown out again, I guess. Did that make sense? Probably not. It's just that… hm."

"It's just that what, Bella? Tell me."

"I—writing this is harder than breaking. Don't get me wrong! I'm loving the challenge, and grateful for this opportunity and everything, and I can do it."

"What, Bella?"

"I'll need time. Months, probably, or…" Bella sighed. "Or encryption software."

Edward thought of the long banks of computers at MI6 HQ, as well as the building-full at the Communications Centre. He'd anticipated this.

"Name it. Anything you want, it's yours."

"I don't know, actually, but—we're not talking about OutGuess here."

"What?"

"Never mind. I'd need complex software—expensive software. Maybe even what the military uses. And whatever it is, I'd need to be trained to use it. More time."

"Done. I'll make some calls. Bella?" Edward waited until Bella made eye contact. Her breath hitched. "May I ask you a question?"

"Sure, I guess."

"Why didn't you go into codebreaking, Bella? Why linguistics?"

"Because cryptographers almost always work for the military, or for the government anyway."

"That's not always the case… and there are org—businesses, like mine. You could be the best, Bella. You very nearly already are. Your talent could save lives."

"Maybe, but probably at the expense of another life. I couldn't abide that, Edward. I—I'm a scholar. I want to spend my days absorbed in phonemes and orthography and etymology... and maybe nobody'd care, but I'd be doing good, adding to the sum of human knowledge. Making things… better."

Bella fiddled with her pen, running her thumb over the chewed-up end. Edward was going to go upstairs and phone Esme to tell her he'd failed.

"But at the same time—in World War II, and even Don Banner later on, those people were doing good, right? There was evil in the world, and it had to be fought. I could've done that, I think. I mean, a friend from home is in the Army. What if it was him—what if it meant the difference between him coming home alive and not? But… The world's so grey now, how would I know for certain? There're no guarantees. How would I know the ramifications of my actions? If—if I did have to… do something that would cost someone their life… how would I know it's worth it?"

"Bella… "

The words were on the tip of his tongue. _"Bella… I'm a spy. Your skill could save my life, someday. Mine, one of my friends'—someone I love. Every new mission has the potential to be my last. The intelligence you analyze could keep that from happening… could bring me home. To you. Me, Bella, us. I'm worth it, we could be worth it."_

"... anything you'd do, it'd be worth it. I'll go make those calls."

Bella watched Edward's back as he walked away. Instead of his usual posture—head up, shoulders back, eyes forward—Edward's frame was bent over. Long after the door closed, her thoughts still revolved around him, what he looked like as she spoke.

Edward sat in front of his computer and opened his private file.

**Noble. Ambitious. Eager. Hard-working. Good. Kind.**

"Balls!"

"Is that you wishing you could get away with saying _bollocks_?" Bella glanced up at Edward as she shook her mouse and repeatedly hit CTRL-ALT-Delete on her keyboard with fingers poised as if they were ready to make a kung fu strike.

"Um, let's go with yeah. Thank you," she said, grasping the mug Edward was offering her. She breathed in, letting the warm, moist aroma waft over face. "Oh, it's tea."

"Well," Edward said, gesturing to the windows behind Bella. The London rain flowed in thick, slanting sheets against the angled glass panes. "It's too wet out there to run out for a coffee, even for an Englishman, I'm afraid."

"Mmhmm. I get it. Thanks. Hmm, strong," she murmured after taking a sip. She slumped in her chair, allowing warmth to flow from the mug into her hands and through to her soul. Bella was one of those people who reveled in solitude—or she used to be. Lately, unease began to tickle at her spine and ooze through her limbs whenever she spent too much time alone. Rather, when she spent too much time without seeing Edward; Angela had complained frequently about Bella's tetchy behavior.

Now, with Edward standing across from her, Bella was happy. Last month she'd have written off the feeling of warmth in her chest as just being the tea. Bella never realized just how exhausting denial could be.

"Having trouble? Did you phone IT?"

"Yeah, but there's a backlog or something. Ugh."

"Perhaps I could take a look at it?" Edward was already shrugging out of his jacket.

"Oh my God… yeah, yeah sure." Bella had to admit it to herself, she was ogling. The semi-trance was broken when she noticed Edward's lips quirk up on one side. "Cocky bastard," she muttered and stood up. Experimenting, Bella stretched, and she heard Edward take a deep breath. _Hah. Success._

Bella made room for Edward behind her desk. He was presented with a quandary. He wanted to impress Bella, but if he solved the problem too quickly, he might make Bella feel dumb. One look at the papers on Bella's desk reminded him how unlikely that was, so he quickly found the virus files, deleting each just as he'd copied them earlier. He paused a few times to make it look good.

"There we are." The computer chimed.

"Wow, thanks." Edward stood up and Bella walked toward him to take her seat again, but he was in the way. Bella moved left as Edward moved right. Edward moved left as Bella moved right. They chuckled. Edward put his hands on Bella's upper arms—the buzzy energy flowed between them despite the fabric of Bella's shirt. Edward's eyes were bright, burning-bright green.

"Bella."

Edward caressed her jaw with his thumb, stepping closer. She felt the pressure of the air between them, how it increased as he moved into her space. Her heart pounded. Bella heard it in her ears.

Edward froze just after he started leaning in and Bella watched as _something _changed in his expression. She felt the atmosphere shift.

"No." Bella reached up and grabbed Edward by the back of his neck. Gently, she pulled him down to her.

When their lips touched, Bella closed her eyes. For Edward, relief mingled with the powerful physical sensation. The last of his half-hearted resistance to his attraction to Bella melted away. He could fight no more. Edward kissed Bella like he'd been dreaming of for weeks, like he'd never kissed anyone before. It was chaste—at first. He brushed his lips against hers. Bella gasped in surprise, and he sucked her bottom lip between his. Edward tugged on it gently, nibbling, before letting go to slide his tongue against it. Bella tightened her fist, gathering up a bit of his black lapel.

"Yes," he murmured against her lips when Bella pulled on his jacket, and "yes" again when her tongue touched his. With the arm Bella hadn't noticed sneaking around her waist Edward pulled her close against his lean body. _Oh, God_. He was hard. The kiss turned aggressive when he tilted his head and pushed his tongue into her mouth. Hot. Wet. Smoky like black tea.

_If only she weren't a mission. If only she weren't my target_.

Bella didn't even realize she was tugging on Edward's hair until she felt him grunt against her mouth. She started to apologize, but Edward just kissed her harder. He liked her small hands in his hair—Bella could feel him getting harder against her stomach. Bella's thoughts spun into a turned-on vertigo as she rubbed herself against the thick length of his dick. When Edward realized he was seriously considering fucking Bella on her desk, he calmed the kiss down. Bella wasn't a girl in a club somewhere, she was more than some after-mission distraction. Edward brushed his lips against the corner of Bella's mouth and then pulled back.

"Let me take you to dinner, Bella."

"Yeah, okay." Bella smiled. Their chests pressed against each other as they breathed hard and fast.

"I, ah, should let you get back to work." He kissed her again, bending her back a little. Bella laughed, a little breathless.

"Do you have to?"

"Yeah, I have to get some things done as well. One more, though…" A quick kiss and Edward pushed himself away from Bella. She wobbled and collapsed into her chair. The leather was cool against her skin.

"I'll talk to you soon." Bella laughed when, instead of putting his jacket back on, Edward draped it over his arm and then stuck his hand in his pocket. Edward looked over his shoulder and grinned, then walked from Bella's office to his. When he got there, he made no notes. One thought dominated the rest. It flashed like a neon sign in Piccadilly Circus.

"I don't want to make Bella think she loves me. I want her to actually love me."

**AN:** Thanks to my beta, Sara ( abadkitty).

I hope everyone had a happy holiday, regardless of how they celebrated. Mine was pretty good. Check out the story blog at chekovsgunblog dot blogspot dot com — and drop me a line below!


	14. Chapter Fourteen

A BULLET FROM CHEKHOV'S GUN

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2012 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter Fourteen**

Bella had gone with Eric to SoHo and returned a couple hundred pounds poorer—and one fuck-hot leather miniskirt richer. She fidgeted at her desk, trying to pull it down, but there was no getting around the _mininess_ of it. Her legs looked great, though, elongated by the same shoes she'd worn the night she'd met Edward.

The phone rang at precisely the same time it always did: the moment the computer clock ticked over to 2:15p.m. It was like he somehow had the call automated—or he was waiting by the phone. Bella grinned.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Bella? Do you have your report ready?"

"When have I not?"

"True. Shall I come down then?"

"No. I'll come up." _Maybe you can come __**down**__ another time_.

Bella hung up. With a deep breath and a _here goes nothing_, Bella marched out of her office. Eric gave her a low-five as she passed his desk at the end of the hall. "I updated your access key, you should be able to use the executive lift. Don't want the whole office getting a peek at that hotness," he said, gesturing to her skirt. "Oh, and while you're playing around down there, see if you can't pull the stick out of his arse?" Bella laughed.

"I'm not sure if I'll get so kinky the first time out. Don't wanna scare him off."

"Good plan. Go get 'im, tiger."

Bella checked her lipgloss in the shiny lift door. Nothing more to be done. Striding past the conspicuously empty secretary's desk—thank you, Eric—she strode into Edward's office without knocking. He was sitting, looking out over the city. He started when Bella entered, and his mouth dropped open when he saw her.

"Holy shit."

Bella stopped in front of his desk. "I have your report ready, Mr. Cullen."

"What…?" She flicked the single sheet of paper down on his desk. When it settled, the two words in large block letters became visible.

WANNA FUCK?

"Oh my God." Edward stared. The vulnerability of Bella's bitten lip, even more than the sex in her eyes, forced Edward from his chair—he nearly vaulted over his desk in his excitement. He grabbed Bella, kissing her roughly, and walked them both back to the masculine black leather couch in the corner of his office.

"What are you reading?"

Bella started violently out of her daydream when she heard Edward's voice. "What?!"

"What're you reading?" Edward asked again, like he wasn't using cyber-monitoring software to watch her every click from upstairs.

"Porn." Bella re-crossed her legs.

"What?!"

"No, Edward. At least, not _that kind _of porn. I'm at work. This is foodporn. I'm reading about Ferran Adrià and molecular gastronomy."

_ Here's my in_. "Oh really? I was just reading about this new molecular whatever restaurant, BIOLAB."

"I bet they do that pretentious thing where it's all one word, spelled in caps."

"You read my mind."

"Huh, I wish," Bella muttered.

"Pardon me?"

"Um, never mind. So…"

"Bella," Edward said, smiling. He had a feeling his charm might be more effective now than it had been at that dreadful party. He walked around her desk and held out his hand. Bella took it, tentatively, and Edward gently pulled her to her feet. He brushed her cheek with his thumb and opened his hand to grasp her face. "I'll pick you up tomorrow at seven."

"Yeah." Bella nodded. Edward kissed her then, pulling her close. When they broke apart, Edward realized there was another good reason why he so rarely kissed women. He was expected to close his eyes.

"I'll see you then." He kissed her quickly and left. Bella flopped down into her chair and spent the rest of the day vacillating between rosy daydreams and planning wardrobe strategy.

When he climbed into the van that evening, Edward was wound up tight. He'd changed from his suit to more suitable attire, but even jeans and a henley were too constrictive in the stifling-hot van. Or maybe it was just him, letting memories bleed into his imagination and form fantasies.

She'd said, 'not _that kind_ of porn,' and 'I'm at work.' Did that mean she did watch _that kind_ of porn when not at work? _Porn. Porn porn porn._

Edward leaned back in his chair and let one leg splay out. He flicked through a mental Rolodex of his favorite dreamed-up encounters with Bella. He rubbed his chest, biting his lip.

Through his headphones, Edward could hear her banging around in her kitchen. She was irritated by something, or frustrated maybe—he'd come up behind her and rub her shoulders. Then fuck her on the counter.

Edward was brought out of that fantasy when Bella started playing some heavy rock music in her flat. Edward pictured himself and Bella at a concert. They would grind together, he'd hold her by the hips from behind. Bella would wrap her arms around his neck and he'd look down her top. He'd sweet-talk her into a blowjob in a utility closet.

"Motherfucker… a bitch… wear?" Right after the music stopped her voice crackled in his ears. He wondered what was up with Bella tonight-and was taken by a new fantasy. They would be having a fight. She'd be fucking hot in her anger, shouting at him. He'd apologize and screw her against the living room wall. The way she'd moan his name as he drove himself into her...

"Edward…. Ed—Edward…" _Yes, yes, just like that_… _wait, what the fuck?!_

Edward sat up. She was moaning. She was moaning _his name_. Edward rushed to double-check the recording software and interrupted the feed to MI6. He'd catch shit—he wasn't exactly being subtle—but he didn't care. This was for him alone.

She murmured and moaned. Edward gripped the table's ledge so hard his fingertips turned white. When she started panting, he reached down—just to adjust himself. As soon as his hand made contact with his cock through his jeans his resistance shattered. The vague ideals of gentlemanly behavior his mother instilled in him while she was alive disappeared. They weren't strong enough to resist the sex sounds of the girl he—

"Edward!"

He groaned and slumped down like marionette whose strings had been cut. He had a softening cock, a palm-full of cum, and a strong twinge of shame. The orgasm tingled in his limbs for several long moments as his breathing calmed in time with Bella's.

Seven p.m. was less than twenty-four hours away.

**AN:** Thanks to my beta, Sara ( abadkitty).

Short, I know.

If you'd like to read more about foodporn in fic, you might want to put me on author alert. *taps nose twice*


	15. Chapter Fifteen

A BULLET FROM CHEKHOV'S GUN

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2012 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter Fifteen**

"Hello, Bella Swan speaking."

"Bella, hello. Hypothetical situation. If I were to pick you up tonight in a Koenigsegg, what would you say?"

"I'd tell you to go home and try again."

"Good to know. See you tonight… I'm looking forward to it."

"Me too. Bye, Edward."

"Bye, Bella."

Edward adjusted his tie—again. He'd tied it, loosened it, and tied it again when he decided Bella was the type of girl who'd appreciate a man making an effort. Regardless of his usual MO, Edward knew the I Don't Give a Fuck Look was wrong here. He did give a fuck.

He looked down at the bouquet he'd brought her. Red roses. Roses were traditional date flowers in America. Would Bella want something different? Her favorite flower wasn't in her file. She was hardly a traditional girl, so maybe something more exotic would've been better? Orchids? Did they make orchid bouquets?

"Stop being such a pussy," Edward said under his breath. He shook out his arms and knocked firmly on Bella's door. It opened right away.

"Hi," Bella said, smiling.

"Hi…" Edward looked her up and down. She looked gorgeous in a short black dress and bright blue heels. Edward told her so.

"Thank you." She gestured to his black suit. "You look good, Edward. Really good. Are those for me?"

"Oh, yes, here. I hope you like roses." Edward held them out to her. Their fingers brushed together when Bella took the flowers.

"I do. Come on in, let me put them in water." She opened the door wider for him. Edward made sure to look around as if this were the first time he'd seen her flat. It _was _the first time he'd actually seen her standing at her kitchen sink, exactly where he'd pictured her so many times these past two months. When Bella set the roses, now in a vase, on the counter, Edward walked up to her.

"I want to kiss you so badly, but…" Edward raised his hand, fingers curled loosely in, and touched her lip with his thumb. Bella grinned at him and pulled on his tie until he bent down the few inches necessary for their lips to touch. She kissed him, hard, until he finally kissed her back. More and more, Bella was living for the thrill of her lips on his. His mouth tasted minty.

When they pulled apart, Bella brushed her fingers over Edward's lips. She showed him the clean skin and said, "The miracles of modern chemistry."

Bella winked. Edward wondered what he had to do to get her to wink again.

"Shall we?" Edward gestured towards the door. When Bella reached to take her coat off the stand by the door, Edward stopped her.

"Allow me. Please." Bella nodded and he helped her with her coat. She loved the way his fingers trailed down her arms. Edward noticed his scarf hanging on the next hook and held it up to Bella with a raised eyebrow.

"It keeps me warm. England's really cold. Shut up, give it to me." As he had once before, Edward wound the scarf around her neck. This time, his thoughts weren't strategic or related to his mission. He was imagining all the other ways he could use that scarf while Bella begged him to _give it to her_. He had to adjust himself when Bella turned to lock her door.

Down on the street, Bella laughed when she saw the car parked in front of her flat. The black paint shone in the streetlamp's yellow light. "A DB9. Good choice."

Edward opened her door for her. "Good old British engineering."

Bella looked directly into his eyes as she stepped on the other side of the open door. "Nothing better." She lowered herself into the passenger seat.

"Wait, how'd you even get this up the street? This is _Oxford_," Bella asked when Edward had started the car. Actually, Edward had broken several of the city's notoriously copious traffic laws in his chivalrous gesture of picking Bella up at her door, but he didn't care. It wasn't as if he'd have to pay any tickets he might've gotten.

"Ah, well, I'm a rebel," he said as he navigated the twisting, narrow streets.

"Bet you're regretting that flappy-paddle gearbox about now…" Bella didn't regret a damned thing. She loved his long fingers on the paddles, but she'd love them on a gearshift even more. It was win-win.

"Bella…" He glanced over at her. "Where did you learn so much about cars? I can't imagine even your alma mater offering shop classes."

"Insulsissimus est homo, Cantabrigiensis."

Edward paused for a moment too long. Bella laughed. "Score one for the dark blues!"

"Dammit." With Bella laughing like that, her body angled towards his, her eyes lit by the instrument panel's eerie glow, Edward couldn't even be mad. He felt happy and warm. He knew it wasn't because he had the heater on too high. Bella looked comfortable. More than comfortable.

"Nah, a friend—someone I grew up with—he's a big gearhead. Petrolhead. As much time as I spent with him, I couldn't help but pick up a few things."

Edward's grip on the steering wheel tightened as he mentally inventoried all the candidates _he _could be. _Him._ Bella had a _him_.

"Boyfriend?" he asked, struggling for casual.

"Who, Jake?" Jake. Edward knew him now. No romantic involvement reported. "No. Not really."

"Is it _no _or _not really_?"

"Should we discuss all your female acquaintances, Edward?"

"Ah…" There is no good answer to that question.

"That's what I thought. This is our first date. Nothing heavy, okay?"

"All right." Edward nodded. "What's your favorite band?"

Bella and Edward regarded the interior of BIOLAB as they were led to their table by a hostess in a white lab coat. The restaurant was fashioned like a science classroom: black slate tables, metal stools, and lab equipment for tableware.

"Not the most romantic place," Bella commented as she sat down.

"No, I—ah—sorry." _Idiot. You're an idiot, Cullen_.

"It's better than that, though," she hastened to reassure him. "Any guy can do candlelight and white tablecloths. It's boring. This is exciting, and memorable. I mean… you listened when I told you about something I was interested in. This is great, Edward."

Bella placed her hand on top of Edward's; his skin was warm and soft against the stony tabletop. Edward would endure the cruelest, most severe tortures he'd ever heard of to get Bella to keep looking at him like that.

"Welcome to BIOLAB, I'm Cora." The pair on the verge of being something more-than-friends broke apart when the waitress appeared. She poured them each a glass of water into a graduated cylinder.

"We have three prix-fixe menus tonight: Chemistry, Biology, and Physics. Each menu has an elective wine accompaniment with every course." She handed Edward a second sheet of paper.

"Will the wine be served in a beaker too?" Edward tapped the larger glassware with his finger.

"That's an Erlenmeyer flask," Bella corrected automatically, then cringed. Edward had only seen that down-on-herself posture a few times, but he could still recognize it.

"Cool, Bella." He meant it. She was sexy all the time, but her wonkish streak was particularly appealing. She smiled at him.

"We need a minute," he said to the waitress. When she left, he leaned over and whispered to Bella, "I have a confession. I don't know what half this stuff is."

Bella chuckled. "I think my ratio is a little better, but it looks like Biology, at least, is vegetarian. Order whichever main course most appeals to you, I guess."

"And… which one is that?"

"Second from the bottom."

"All right, okay. I'm ready."

The waitress reappeared, a smartphone-like device in her hand instead of a notepad.

"Chemistry, please," Bella said.

"Wine or water?"

"Um, wine."

"Very good. Sir?"

"Physics, and I can't have a beer?"

"Our chef and sommelier worked together to pair a wine to match each course, so we recommend that." She sounded a bit bored.

"Just the water then."

"Very good."

When Edward turned back to Bella, she was looking at him with a wry, amused expression. "What?" he asked.

"Nothing, nothing." Bella took a sip of water just as the waitress arrived with her wine and their first courses: cold salads.

Edward leaned forward and held eye contact with Bella for a long moment. Using a soft, sweet voice he said, "Tell me."

"Wow. I… um… physics is a boy science. So of course you'd pick it. Because you're a boy." Bella closed her eyes and made herself stop talking. She knew if she could clear her mind for a moment, the Edward Effect would wane and she would sound reasonably intelligent again. No, she was going to hold her own tonight.

"What? I… what?"

"All the other sciences are female. Physics is male. Proof of that," Bella said and picked up a flat, modern-looking stainless steel fork, "is that your Physics meal has a red meat main course and two more with game." She gestured to the wild hare on his plate before taking a bite of her own salad. It had prawns.

"That's a bit mad."

"Yeah, it is." Bella smiled and continued to eat. Their plates were small and they finished quickly. When the second course arrived, Edward smirked.

"Maybe I should've betrayed my gender. Chemistry's looking good right now," he said, trying to infuse his voice with as much innuendo as possible.

"You know," Bella said as she picked the single _bélon_ from the spheroids and other ingredients. She held the shell between her thumb and two fingers, angling it so Edward could see. She ran her finger around the edge of the white meat, slowly.

"Some say oysters are aphrodisiacs because they resemble…" She licked a small drop of the briny oyster liquid off her finger. Edward stared.

"Aroused female genitalia," Bella continued. "Others say it's because oysters have a lot of zinc in them, which aids testosterone production. Which, of course, is vital for a man to make sperm… and it might have a positive effect on female sexual arousal."

He was still staring. Bella put the mollusk back on her plate, feeling confused and a bit embarrassed. "Um, sorry, I must be boring you. I didn't mean to give you a lecture on shellfish."

Edward's cell phone rang. It could only be one person—one entity—that would call him _now_. His body turned cold in an instant.

"Excuse me, Bella." He turned on his stool and answered his phone. "Cullen."

There was a long pause. "Yes, I understand. I'll be in immediately."

He slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket. When he looked at Bella again, she gasped. His face was so hard.

"There's been something of an emergency, and I have to cut dinner short. I'm so sorry, I have to return to the office immediately. I'll have them call you a cab." He stood and threw several bills down on the table, then rushed Bella out of the restaurant. Outside, a cab that Edward did not have time to call was waiting. Edward pressed several bills into Bella's hand and held it for a long minute. He kissed her hard and too briefly.

"Bella, listen to me. Go directly to your flat. I don't care what you have to tell the cabbie, what you have to pay him, he drops you off at your door, do you understand? Go _directly_ to your flat."

Edward ushered her into the cab before she could respond. He leaned down to look at her, then nodded at the driver. The taxi pulled away and Bella watched Edward jog into the night.

**AN****:** Thanks to my beta, Sara ( abadkitty).

I've gained a lot of new readers recently, so I wanted to say thank you! I always make a point to respond to new reviewers, but in case I missed you—welcome! I hope you're enjoying my little spy story.

And hey, if you find my writing to be tolerable and enjoyed the foodie bits here, I'll be posting a new story soon you might want to be on the lookout for.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

A BULLET FROM CHEKHOV'S GUN

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2012 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter Sixteen**

Edward was back on the phone with Alice before Bella's cab was out of sight.

"Tell me more about this threat. I thought the chatter was nonspecific!"

"It was." He could hear the clatter of rapid fingers on a keyboard in the background. "I can clear the traffic in front of you, or Bella first. I can't do both at once."

"Bella. She has farther to go. You'll just have to clean up after me." Edward slammed the car door. He spun the tires pulling out of the car park, painting the concrete with a smear of black rubber. The fucking car wasn't fast enough.

"I will. Hurry, Edward."

He threw the phone down onto the passenger seat and floored it, passing three cars at a time.

The phone rang again before he'd made it even halfway back to headquarters. "Fuck!" He groped for the damned thing—he'd only owned this car for a few hours, he hadn't set up the Bluetooth yet.

"Brief me on this threat."

"I can't—something's happened."

"What?!" Edward shouted. "Is Bella all right?"

"She's still in her taxi, but… the agent tailing the threat lost contact—"

"Fucking hell!" He slammed on the brakes and pulled the steering wheel hard over into a sliding U-turn. Horns honked all around him, middle fingers were raised. Edward didn't care.

Alice waited until Edward stopped swearing. "I'm watching Bella and the threat both by satellite. She should make it back to her flat first, but… it'll be close."

"Fuck, can't you get in his way? Throw up red lights, do the opposite of what you're doing for Bella!"

"I _am_, Edward! Bloody hell, I'm one woman! I've got people working on it, but he's on a motorbike, and he's using it! I can barely keep him on camera!"

"All right, Alice, all right. Look, just tell me what you know. Does the Chief know about this?"

"Of course she does. She's here with me now."

_Oh shit._ Somehow, this was even more serious than Edward thought.

"Bella's name's been coming up in Eastern European mafia channels all month."

"I know that—fuck!" Edward reversed and headed the wrong way down a one-way street, two tires up on the curb. "We were supposed to be monitoring the situation."

"We were. Something happened tonight, all of a sudden there was a plan. Shit!"

"What?"

"I just got the report from the other agent. Threat is armed, visual confirmation. We're sure the plan is kidnap, but he's going to take your Bella by force, looks like."

"I won't let it happen. I have a GOD bag and a rifle in the van. He won't come near her."

There was nothing for a while but the purr of Edward's engine and the ambient noise of Alice in his ear. As he drove, he slipped deeper into Agent Cullen, leaving Edward-the besotted fool who flirted over dinner with the girl he fancied-farther behind with each mile.

Alice sighed in relief and Edward felt a little of the tension leave his shoulders. "She's in her flat, but he's close."

"Good. So am I. Get Esme to authorize the kill order."

"You're go."

Edward hung up once more. He ditched his car on a side street and sprinted to the surveillance van, swearing when he found the door locked. The key made a long gash in the first L in CROWLEY'S FLOORING AND TILE logo before his eyes adjusted to the dark.

Hunched over inside the van, Edward shoved all the detritus of his surveillance—laptop, notes, earphones, pens—onto the floor. In a cubby above the blank TV screens were two black ballistic nylon bags. He grabbed both, throwing one to the end of the now-empty work bench. From the other he withdrew his partially disassembled rifle. With the surety of habit he snapped the pieces together and slid the magazine home. Once he'd set the rifle down, he finally took the time to find a radio earpiece and put it in.

"Testing, one-two. Testing, one-two. 007 here." He popped the back door open. "Please advise."

"007, copy. Are you in place?"

"Affirmative." Edward stretched his long frame out on the counter—he barely fit. Down the alley from where the van was parked, Edward could see the street in front of Bella's flat. He adjusted his scope and worked to calm his breathing. Fierce as he felt, he was liable to abandon stealth entirely and just kill the motherfucker with his bare hands. "Target description?"

"Male, caucasian, over six feet, dark hair and eyes. Jeans and a hoodie, on a red motorbike. Confirmed armed. Over."

"Tracking. ETA?"

"Two minutes."

"Copy." Edward slid the bolt back. The metallic _clink_ was a delicious sound to his ears.

"Target is approaching."

"Copy."

"Be advised, be advised—your contact is leaving her flat!"

"The fuck?!" Edward pulled away from his scope. He could see that yes, Bella was jogging down the steps in front of her flat. She was shivering in the cold and had a black plastic trash bag in her hand.

"Target is approaching! 100 meters!"

Edward gritted his teeth and focused downrange. With the curve of the street, the target would have to get uncomfortably close to Bella before Edward could pull the trigger. The angles were poor. This would have to be one of the best shots of his life.

Through his scope, Edward watched the target get off his motorbike and stalk up to Bella. She noticed him. He pulled a handgun from his waistband behind his back. She dropped her weight back onto her right leg and balled her fists.

Was she going to try to resist?

No. _NO. _

Edward didn't have time to think anymore. This target wasn't coming in alive. He settled his crosshairs over the target's center mass. His last thought before pulling the trigger was that he wished Bella could go inside first.

The bullet tore through the target's shoulder and twisted his torso around. He dropped his gun and reached out, grabbing Bella's pajama top. Edward watched, helpless, as the target pulled Bella down with him in a tangle of limbs. He was dead before he hit the ground, half pinning Bella.

"007! 007! Do you copy?"

"I copy." Bella wasn't getting up. Why wasn't Bella getting up?

"Do you have visual on my contact?" he asked.

"Standby," the voice said. "Target appears unconscious. Standby."

Edward was already on his feet, crouched by the open door. He had the bag full of currency and documents in one hand, the other on the doorframe when he made himself stop and think. It took every iota of discipline he had—gleaned from thousands of hours of assiduous training—to stay in place. Not to run to her.

"We have 999 reports already, emergency services have been dispatched. Exfil immediately. Over."

Edward had no fucking clue how he was expected to just _leave her there_.

"We'll take care of her, 007. Exfil now."

"Copy."

Edward walked in a daze back to his car. It started to rain as he drove to MI6 HQ.

Edward was pacing the living room of Bella's small flat. He pulled at his hair. It was three in the morning, she should've been home from hospital already. He should've met her there. He never should've listened to Esme. Why wasn't she here? He had just pulled his keys from his pocket and started for the door when he heard a key in the lock. He turned to face the door as Bella walked through, shoulders slumped and obviously exhausted. She ran her hand through her hair, pulling it back from her face, and started, noticing the strange man in her apartment for the first time.

"What are you doing here?"

Edward had his lie ready. "You weren't answering your phone. I was worried, and had your landlord let me in…"

Bella patted the phone in her coat pocket, as if just then remembering it was there.

"Oh, yeah… I was… I had to go to the hospital."

"Are you all right? You look so pale…" Edward walked towards her slowly, and raised a reassuring hand to cup her cheek. He ran his thumb along the dark skin beneath her eyes. "Why don't I make you some tea?"

"Yeah, that sounds good." Bella took a deep breath in her nose to calm herself, and her nostrils flared as a smoky, metallic scent filled her nose. Her eyes snapped open and she looked at Edward with horror. She jumped back.

Edward dropped his hand. It stung from where he'd touched her, from where she'd pulled away in fear. He knew what she'd smelled. He looked at her, pleading with his eyes.

"Bella-"

"Edward. I think you need to leave. Now."

She slid away from the door but kept her back pressed against the wall. She opened the safety lock with a trembling hand. She wouldn't look at him as he passed by her.

"I'm so sorry, Bella."

Edward walked out of Bella's flat and into the English spring rain, alone and sure that everything was over.

**AN:** Thanks to my beta, Sara ( abadkitty).

Hi all. I've had a HELLUVA week and I want to extend a double-extra-special thank you to everyone who's wished me well via Twitter, etc. Also, welcome to my slew of new readers!


	17. Chapter Seventeen

A BULLET FROM CHEKHOV'S GUN

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2012 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter Seventeen**

Bella needed her home, but home was an ocean away.

Her flat was stifling, not cozy anymore. She had to get out of there; she needed time, space, something. Bella dashed out of her flat and walked down the street, gasping in the clean air. She saw the bus to London and rushed to catch it. Bella rode, lost in mental blankness, until the porter gently shook her shoulder. She was in London proper now: Trafalgar Square. She got off and wandered, shivering in the dead-of-night's chill. The architecture was so alien now, cold—Bella felt no thrill looking at the National Gallery. There were only a few other people in the square itself as Bella hurried through alone. She needed comfort and the familiar, and there was none to be found.

_Or maybe… _

Decided, Bella hailed a cab. She handed him half of her little remaining cash when he dropped her off at the train station. She'd need her emergency credit card for this.

"I need to get to Mannheim, Germany, right away," Bella said to one of the tired-looking attendants as soon as she opened her station.

"All right, love, let's see." The attendant—called Joyce, according to her badge—pecked away at a few keys on her keyboard. Bella drummed her fingers and tried very, very hard to keep her panic down. "Round-trip or one-way?

"I… don't know. Can I buy an open-ended return ticket?"

"Of course, love. There's only business-class left."

"That's _fine._"

"All right, then. Eurostar to Paris, that'll leave in three hours. You'll arrive at Paris-Nord, but hop on over to Paris-Est, take the ICE to Mannheim," she narrated as each ticket printed out. Bella threw down her plastic and tried to think of what to tell Charlie.

There was nothing to do but wait. Bella ate without tasting, walked without seeing. She sat down in a café.

When the male barista handed Bella her coffee, flashes of Edward doing the same broke through Bella's false Zen. She hurried away before the bored young man could see her lose her shit, and ducked into the nearest bathroom. She ducked into a stall, but it was filthy—crying, she stumbled into the next one over. Her shaking hands couldn't grip her cup any longer and it fell to the floor. The rivulets of milky-brown turned red as they flowed to the drain; the synthetic floral scent in the bathroom morphed into the antiseptic-and-steel perfume of hospital.

Time flowed and jumped in Bella's mind. That man, contorting as his shoulder was blown away. Edward's phone going off. The doctor. The blood.

Bella put her head between her knees and hugged the back of her neck. She rocked as she watched the fluid on the floor.

That smell. Cordite; a fireworks show after a midsummer baseball game. A day at the shooting range with her father.

All those cryptic little hints. The fast cars and expensive suits. The mixed signals. The job Edward didn't actually seem to do any work at. The way he ran off at the restaurant… The man with a tiger tattoo on his forearm, surrounded by what Bella thought was Italian text, reaching for her. The gun in his hand.

Bella had seen a man get shot. Edward had recently fired a gun.

A knock on the door startled Bella and she realized she'd been crying. She wiped her eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Dear? You're crying, calling out. Who's this Edward—did he hurt you? There's no one else here, you're safe."

"No, no, nothing like that. I'm sorry, I'm fine."

"Shall I call security for you?"

"No! No, I'm okay."

"At least come out, let me make sure you're all right." Bella knew she probably looked like hell. Hell warmed-over. She was coming up on 24 hours awake and starting to feel it.

When Bella opened the door, a beautiful, regal older woman was standing there. Bella found herself intimidated at first, but started calming as soon as she met the stranger's brown eyes. The lady held out a handkerchief—a real, cloth, _monogrammed_ handkerchief.

"Thank you. Ma'am." Bella ducked her head and walked to the bank of sinks to try and clean herself up. The woman smelled of amber and milky tea. It was a comforting, intensely maternal scent, and reminded Bella of Gramma Higgenbotham.

The strange woman put a gentle hand on Bella's upper arm. Bella felt sheltered by it in a way she never had with her mother. When the older woman spoke, her voice was soft. "Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?"

"Um, no." How do you tell a stranger you think your maybe-boyfriend—a man you more-than-care for—is in the mafia or something?

"All right, dear. I'll let you be. I know things aren't always as they seem. Just… trust your instincts."

"Thanks, I guess." Bella's instincts had been telling her that Edward wasn't a bad man. Dangerous, yes, but not bad.

The woman nodded and left. Bella admired her perfect chignon as she walked away.

"What a dame," she muttered. Bella realized she still had the handkerchief and ran out of the bathroom, but the woman was gone. There was no sign of her in the empty terminal. Bella traced the swooping monogram with her thumb. _EPA_.

Bella froze mid-stride. _Edward's middle name is Anthony._ She tossed the bit of cloth in the nearest bin and hurried to her platform.

-ABFCG-

The train filled with passengers as Bella fidgeted in her seat. She hoped they wouldn't notice the passenger in yoga pants, a scrubs top, and a dressy trenchcoat—or if they did, that they wouldn't judge. Too much to ask, based on some of the looks she was getting.

Bella brushed her fingers through her hair and put it back up in a neater ponytail. She winced when her fingers brushed against the goose-egg on the back of her head. The doctor had said she had a concussion. That wasn't a big deal, Bella had had a few of those when she was growing up. She knew the routine. Only now there wasn't anyone to keep her company while she stayed awake. A distraction was in order.

Thinking she'd study some German dialects, Bella pulled her phone from her pocket. She'd specifically asked the paramedic to grab it, along with her coat, but then she'd forgotten all about it in the chaos that was Accident & Emergency on a Friday night. She was admitted quickly, bypassing a waiting room full of patients. Bella assumed it was because she was brought in by ambulance, covered in blood.

There were a dozen missed calls from Edward. Bella ignored them all. The voicemail messages got a similar treatment. After she made the single necessary phone call, she settled in for the first leg of her trip, learning about Swabian pronunciation until her phone died.

-ABFCG-

Bella purchased a ludicrously overpriced cell phone charger in Paris-Nord and a _la plus grande café que vous avez_ in Paris-Est. Bella didn't like to engage in national stereotypes, but the looks she was getting from the French were markedly different from those she'd gotten on the other side of the Channel. More knowing. _Les plus sensibles infortunes_ indeed.

Soon but too soon, Bella was seated and the train was speeding east. It took her a while to get used to the strange sense of smooth velocity that came with riding a high-speed train. Only being able to sharpen her _Ess_es for so long, after a while, Bella dozed. She dreamt of a misty plain consumed by an ancient battle. A tall, red-headed warrior-king painted in Pictish woad looked up from the slaughter and locked eyes with her. Suddenly, he was right in front of her, holding her protectively close. He leaned close and with breath that smelled of wood-smoke, said, "_Il n'est rien de réel que le rêve et l'amour_."

-ABFCG-

A kind, older woman woke Bella pushing a snack cart by. Bella was reminded powerfully of the Hogwarts Express in her sleep-fogged state. The trip was certainly surreal.

"_Danke_," she muttered as she accepted her bag of potato chips.

"_Geht es Ihnen gut_?" she asked in a crisp Berliner accent.

"_Ja_." Bella sighed. That was the second stranger to ask after her well-being. Was she that transparent?

Outside Bella's window, mountains covered in green-black forests seemed to float past. The Vosges range, Bella thought. Maybe it was the American in her, but Europe's geography always seemed _old_. Forks, on the other hand, felt like a temporal limbo—never changing, perpetual. The qualities a home should have. Bella ignored the pang in her chest that told her England felt like home now.

Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. **ill be there. leaving now. **She smiled. Home meant many things, after all.

-ABFCG-

As she walked down the platform in Mannheim, Bella really wished she'd at least gotten a regular t-shirt in Paris. In the German sun, there was no doubt she looked like a hot mess. She drew the trench coat around her and hurried along with her head down. When she arrived at the main concourse, she paused and looked around. Her heart leapt when she saw a flash of green fatigues, but that soldier was blond. Was he not here yet? Bella searched, growing slightly nervous. He'd be here. He had to be.

"Bella!"

She laughed and ran to throw herself into his arms. The GI grunted when he caught her and twirled her around. When he set Bella on her feet, the top of her head only reached the middle of his chest. Bella put her hand on the rough fabric of his ACUs and said, "Hiya, Jake."

"Hey, Bells. You got any bags?"

"Nah." Bella took the time now to really look at her childhood friend. Tall as ever, but he seemed more _solid_. Her chest hurt a little from where she tried to tackle him. Bella made a show of poking him in the arm, right above his unit's howling wolf insignia. "Jesus, Jake—what happened to the bean-pole I sent off to basic?"

He grinned and adjusted his cap—Bella mourned his long black hair, sacrificed for his high-and-tight. "The Army happened."

"Apparently."

Jake led her through the train station, the hum of rushed travelers creating an indistinct soundtrack to their reacquaintance. With Jake's heavy arm slung around her, Bella was a ship in harbor. She and Jake fell into their old rhythm as if there had been no interruption; a filial orbit.

"So, Bells… you gonna tell me what this is all about? I thought you were too busy being Queen Nerd to visit this year."

"I just wanted to see you." Leaning against a late-90s Toyota was another young man in Army garb. He nodded once at Bella and climbed in the driver's side.

"Uh, yeah, that's Embry. He's what you'd call the strong, silent type. Or what I call a functional mute, whatever. Not that I'm not happy to see you, but—I mean, you don't have any bags, and… Bells. You look like shit."

"Ugh, no wonder you don't have some nice _fraulein_ to take out tonight instead of picking me up." Bella paused as she buckled her seatbelt in the cramped backseat. "Wait, you don't, do you?"

"Nah." Jake twisted in his seat, making Silent Embry jerk the steering wheel slightly. He just stared at Bella until she started to fidget.

"I needed to get away."

"Mmhmm." Jake faced front again and Embry drove them towards the base. "We'll see what we can do about clothes when we get back on base. I hope you like green."

Bella swallowed hard and without thinking touched her chest. "I love green."

-ABFCG-

As they drove, Bella and Jake chatted. Embry did not. She and Jake emailed, of course, so there wasn't much 'catching up' to do. They mostly talked about Forks. Charlie cheating on his diet, their various old flames, the typical things.

Once they got through security at Schwetzingen, Bella was surprised at just how _ordinary_ the place looked. Except the abundance of men with very short haircuts, the neat rows of houses looked like any suburb in America. Rolling her eyes at herself, Bella realized that was the whole point. Comfort, familiarity. Exactly what she thought she was looking for.

Still, when Jake announced, "Home sweet home," as they pulled up to one of the smaller houses, Bella felt _off_. Unsettled. Unhappy.

"You and the guys comin' over later still?" Jake asked Embry, who just nodded and raised a hand—a still hand, not waving—to Bella before he drove off.

"He's like one of those guards at Buckingham Palace, try all you want, he won't say a damn thing." Jake continued, oblivious to Bella's flinch. She wanted to tell him not to mention English things, but realized that was nuts. "Genius with a wrench, though. Hey, you been there? Buckingham Palace?"

"Yeah," she said, forcing a smile. Jake opened the door to his little house and started nervously straightening the living room.

"Um, roomie's gone for now, down to the PX, I think. You'll meet him later, Sam's his name. Um, shit. I'll change the sheets on my bed, I would've, but such short notice…"

Bella was holding a beer bottle and frowning—glad on the inside for the perfect opportunity to change the subject.

"Jake, you're living in _Germany_ and drinking _Bud Light_?!"

"Hey! Not all of us are hoity-toity _intellectuals_ like you," he said and grabbed the bottle. "It gets the job done."

"Ugh. Heathen." Bella shrugged out of her trench coat. Jake gasped.

"What the hell?!" He wrapped his fingers around her upper arm, barely touching the skin. His fingers overlapped the unmistakable purple of a blooming bruise. Bella hadn't even felt it forming. She crossed her arms, a little awkward, trying to cover it up. She stepped away from him.

"Oh, just someone getting a little too enthusiastic at the dojo."

"Isabella."

Bella stood up straighter, habit and indignation warring inside. That was how her father addressed her when she was in trouble. Jake wasn't her father. When she looked up at him, though, he was plainly concerned. He ran his fingers—still hardly making contact—over the emblem above the breast pocket of Bella's donated scrubs top.

"John Radcliffe Hospital," he read. "Who did this to you? Who hurt you?" Concern was being replaced by anger.

"Jake…" Bella had to make him listen. She switched to Quileute. "_Please, please. Don't. It's not what you think, I swear._"

Jake smiled. Not his usual huge grin, just a small smile. He gathered her up in a hug and held her close. "I dunno if Old Quil would be proud or appalled that you speak my language better than I do."

"Kids these days," Bella murmured, her voice muffled against his chest.

"Yeah. Here, make yourself at home." Jake released her and gestured around, pointing out the obvious: TV, kitchen, the way to the bathroom and his bedroom.

"I can take the couch."

"Nah, I mean, you might be liberated, but I'm still a gentleman. 'Sides, the guys are coming over later—hope that's okay—and I'll probably just crash out here anyway."

"Whatever." Bella was just too tired to argue.

"Shower?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

-ABFCG-

The considerable amount of magical thinking Bella required to get through her shower without acknowledging the various stains and growths on the tile was aided by her dog-tired state; reality felt more like a lucid dream. A faded Army-issue t-shirt sat, folded, on the white Formica sink. When Bella put it on, it hung past mid-thigh. Bella raided Jake's medicine cabinet, knocked back some Advil with water from the faucet, and stumbled into his bed. She was asleep before she could finish wondering if he'd changed the sheets yet.

Bella dreamed she was being chased by an unseen wild creature. Its snarls echoed off the walls of the crevasse she was running through. She was trapped. It was gaining on her. Bella refused to turn to look, but she could feel its hot breath on her neck, the puff of air created by its snapping jaws. A dead-end. With no choice but to turn and face her attacker, Bella braced herself. Bella heard a yelp. When she opened her eyes, her dream-warrior was crouching over a tiger carcass, an arrow buried deep in its side. He slung the creature over his shoulder—sunlight glinted off gold bands wrapped around his upper arms and wrists. He held out his hand.

"_Ich werde dich beschützen_."

_I will protect you._

-ABFCG-

"Bella." Jake shook her shoulder again. She was muttering in German, sounded like. "Bella. Bella."

"_Was_?" she grumbled.

"Uh. Anyway, it's dinnertime. One of the guys is bringing pizza. You still like pepperoni?"

"Charlie," she said as she got up. "I should at least get a veggie."

"Salty, meaty goodness…"

"You're an asshole. Fine. Pepperoni. Again, you're living in _Germany_. You should broaden your sausage horizons. Or is being in the Army enough of a sausage-fest already? They repealed Don't Ask, Don't Tell, you know."

"Ha, ha. Bella, please. You _know_ I'm all about the ladies." He grinned at her.

"You wish."

"Yeah, I do."

"Jake." She drew the scratchy blankets tighter to her chest.

"Yeah. I know." Jake sighed, then pointed to some clothes next to him on the bed.

"Sam brought these, they're his girlfriend's. She's about your size, a little taller maybe. Lemme know if you need anything."

Bella sighed. Jake's advances were the last goddamned thing she needed. Hopefully having a bunch of other guys around would keep him occupied. She sighed again and dressed. The jeans were too long, and the cut of the t-shirt revealed the edge of the light sports bra she'd worn to sleep Friday night. She fussed with it a bit, but then said _fuck it_ and walked into the living room in search of pizza.

"Um, hi." Bella waved to the guys lounging on Jake's sofa.

He introduced them, "Bella, that's Embry, you've met already, obviously." He inclined his head. "There's Sam, Paul, and Jared. Guys, this is Bella, a friend from back home."

"Pizza?" she asked and sat down on the couch next to Jake. An American football game was playing on TV. Bella chuckled. Jake wouldn't clean his shower curtain, but of course he had a huge TV and satellite.

"Seth should be here any minute. Thank fuck, cause I'm starving." The guys all agreed, rubbing their stomachs and swearing for effect.

"So, Bella," the one closest to her said. Jared. "Jake says you speak, like, a fuck-ton of languages."

And there it was. That look. The one that resembled the examination of a sideshow oddity or pop-culture museum piece. Curious, with the understanding that the observer is separate from the thing being observed—a pane of glass or a velvet rope between them. Bella hated that look. Edward never looked at her that way.

"Yeah." She smiled the way she'd been practicing for pitching research grants and impressing doctoral committees. Polite, attentive, restrained.

"How many?"

"Oh, I dunno. A lot." Jared didn't seem to grasp that Bella wasn't in the mood for his interrogation. She just wanted a mind-numbing night of pizza, beer, and football before she even tried to deal with her problems.

"Hey, Jake. That piss-water really all you got?" She gestured to his Bud Light.

"Yep."

"Ugh. Gimme one."

Jake sensed her mood, though. "How's that job going?"

Bella groaned. This subject was hardly better. "Great. Very challenging. Actually…" Something occurred to her. "Pen and paper?"

Jake pointed back into his bedroom, at a small desk in the corner. There was a knock on the door. The pizza was here. Bella wanted to write her idea down before she ate and started drinking in earnest.

-ABFCG-

Bella rifled through Jake's desk drawers. How could a grown man have _five_ dead pens in his pen cup? She found a cheery black-and-yellow envelope of pictures near the back under a pile of receipts.

"Oh, hey, are these of Harry's party when you went home last?" Bella called over her shoulder.

Bella shook the glossy 4x6es into her hand. Instead of a backyard BBQ in Forks, Bella saw red-brown desert. Men in the new fatigues, the ones that looked pixelated—others in the old style, and in drab and khaki civvies; posing in front of Humvees, Hiluxes, even a tank. They all seemed to have weapons. Bella was confused as she flicked through the pictures. Jake had never been deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan, wherever these were taken. He wasn't in any of the pictures. More than once, though, Bella saw Embry. At first, the pictures just seemed to be of joes smiling and laughing. Guys being guys.

But then there was a photo of those same joes, smiling and laughing—in front of a row of men wearing black head-bags, kneeling with their hands cable-tied behind them. A thumbs up in front of a bombed-out brick building, a dust cloud rising in the background. A group of men with a conquering foot on an obviously dead body.

"Oh my God." Bella dropped all the other pictures and rushed to turn on Jake's desk lamp, hoping and praying and pleading that she wasn't seeing what she was seeing. Standing in the motley group of men was one with a cocky smirk exactly like the one she'd shot down in a London gallery months ago.

"Bells? Oh shit, Bells, don't look at—"

"Jake—Jake, who is this?!"

"What, who?" Jake skirted around the photos on the floor to come see what Bella was looking at. "Oh, hey, look, I know you don't support the war, but he was a terrorist, and a heroin—"

"No! Not him, _him_." Bella pointed at the man she didn't want to be her boss, the man she was falling in love with. He was swathed in a desert headdress and wearing aviators, but he had the same jaw, the same lips, the same crook in his nose.

"I dunno, I wasn't there."

"Why do you have these, then?" Calm. Bella needed to calm down.

"They're Embry's. He'll know—Bells, I know this is ugly shit, but…"

"Embry!" Bella called.

The other man appeared in the doorway, chewing a piece of pizza and almost smiling. Bella held out the picture and repeated her question. Embry frowned and swallowed.

"Edward Cullen. Brit. Spook."

**AN:** Thanks to my beta, Sara ( abadkitty).

SPECIAL THANKS to HoochieMomma for her help with the rail travel in this chapter. She just finished a beautiful story called "Falling Empire of a Heart," artfully mixing Arthurian legend and Twilight. I'm all about Edern over here.

A chapter-by-chapter glossary, translations, and other important notes can be found on my storyblog, chekovsgunblog dot blogspot dot com. Thanks to enamoramiento for her help with the German.

**IMPORTANT NOTE**: A rare opportunity has presented itself, and over the course of the next few months, my life will be changing a lot. I'm not abandoning my story. I don't even think I'll really need to put it on hiatus. However, I'm sure I won't be able to update weekly, as I have been. Biweekly seems a more reasonable goal, but I'm going to have to play it by ear for a while. I thank you all for your patience ahead of time.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

A BULLET FROM CHEKHOV'S GUN

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2013 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter Eighteen**

Bella staggered off the train in London, sleep-deprived and confused. The glass and steel glittered in the rare morning sun, and Bella squinted as she walked. She wasn't even sure how many days it'd been since she saw St. Pancras last—three? Four? Several. She'd check her phone, but it was dead again. She'd listened to Edward's voicemails through Germany and most of France.

Sent an hour after she'd fled: _Bella. Bella, please. You must let me explain. It's imperative. _

Two hours later: _Bella, it's Edward… again. I know you don't want to speak with me right now, but it's not what you think. I—well, I can't imagine what you might be thinking, but I assure you, it's not… that. Please, when you get this, call me back at this number. Day or night. Please, Bella._

Thirty minutes after that: _Bella… I should've told you the truth, long ago. I… Bella. I'm sorry. I'll tell you everything—anything. It's not what you think. Probably. [Chuckle] Hell, you've probably got me all sorted. But I won't do this over the phone… I need to see you. You deserve that. Please._

The half-dozen texts she'd received were largely the same. She ran her thumb over the edge of her phone through her jacket pocket. In her rush to pack, she'd left that damn charger on Jake's bedside table. Bella froze mid-stride. Was she supposed to go back to Masen Industries, if it even really existed? Was she supposed to just act as if everything was normal? Feign ignorance? She had to speak to Edward, and before she went to "work" the next day.

Bella looked left and right when she started walking again. She was staring at a dead end. Shaking her head, she turned, prepared to follow the signs to the street and hail a cab. Between her and the crowds on the concourse were three men, standing in an exaggeratedly casual circle. All were looking at her out of the corner of their eye. A shudder ran down Bella's spine. Their eyes weren't at all like those of the man whose last heartbeat Bella had felt against her chest; this evil was different, but just as chilling. She stood up as straight as she could and walked, each step firm and even, toward the concourse. Her steps echoed in this out-of-the-way place.

"Aw, luvvie, don't be like that…" one of them called. Bella refused to turn until she saw one slide into her path. He wore a black parka, identical to the other two. She jumped back.

One or both of the others laughed. Bella couldn't tell. She took a deep breath. Bella couldn't handle three adult male attackers at once. Just one, certainly. Even two—she'd practiced disabling multiple opponents with Angela at the dojo. Three was too many.

"Leave me alone," she demanded. "You don't want to do this." Whatever 'this' was.

"Oh, but we do," answered one behind Bella, to her left.

"Really do," said the third, to her right. Bella was trapped. She shifted her feet, settling into a defensive stance. Bella wouldn't lay down and take this. She'd fight. Bella filled her lungs to scream for help, but when she glanced over her attacker's shoulder, the station was empty. Where had everyone gone? Would anyone hear her if she cried out?

The black-clad man ambled over to a door. It was labeled STORAGE CLOSET and had a broken lock. Bella shuffled around so she kept the apparent ringleader in front of her. If she surprised them, perhaps she could get away. She tensed, ready to spring.

Until a flash of red among the black and chrome caught her eye. An indicator light on a CCTV camera. Bella gasped. Could he…?

Couldn't hurt. Bella looked directly at the camera and said, "Edward, a hand, please?"

"There's no Edward here, luvvie—"

"Are these men bothering you?" came a fourth male voice from the direction of the concourse. He was tall—huge—and dressed in a suit almost as nice as Edward's. He walked with that same feline grace as Edward's, too, one that was too assured for even a multinational boardroom.

Another ostensible businessman materialized, and another. Surely they hadn't appeared out of _nowhere_, but where?

"What the fuck?!" one of Bella's attackers snarled. The apparent leader grabbed for Bella. A flash of movement Bella could barely follow; a grunt; shuffling; thudding; muttered cursing. The huge one had thrust Bella behind his body. One of her attackers was unconscious, another was curled in the fetal position and whimpering as he clutched his balls. The one who'd grabbed for Bella was pressed face-first into the wall, held there by one of her rescuers.

"Well then," said the man who was clearly not a businessman, the one restraining her. "Ya gave us a bit of a scare."

"You're from Belfast," Bella blurted out. Shock. She must be in shock.

"Ha ha, aye. But I've orders to tell you—no, to _impress the urgency of this upon you_," he said in a mocking imitation of a posh English accent.

"That you take this," he removed a credit card from his jacket pocket, "and use it to go wherever ya want, but go directly there. Oxford's a long way, especially on that bus."

Bella nodded and took the card. She stared at the more-than-silver plastic. On it, ISABELLA MARIE SWAN was written in squared-off, raised letters. Bella didn't have an account with this bank.

"Vauxhall Cross is much closer."

Bella's head snapped up. A half-dozen questions flitted through her mind, but the twinkle in his eye suggested she already knew the answers. Well, most of them.

"What's your name?"

"Go see your boy. There'll be time for all that later. I'm sure I'll see you again."

"That's not creepy at all," Bella muttered.

"Give 'im a chance." He squeezed her shoulder, just like Jake would do. Like a brother would do. "He's been worried. Nearly driven the Chief mad pacing outside her office, I'd bet."

Bella stroked her name on the credit card with her thumb. She was tempted to turn around and go right back to Jake and Germany. Bury her head in the sand. But she'd been neglecting her studies—more than that, there was a mystery to be solved. The mystery of Edward Cullen.

"Vauxhall Cross."

He nodded, and Bella nodded back. She walked through the station—still strangely empty—down to the street. Once in the cab, she groaned.

"Goddamn it." She tried to straighten her t-shirt and pulled her hair into a tidier bun. A dramatic confrontation would go better if she'd had time to clean up.

"Understood. Send her up."

Esme Platt hung up her phone and turned to look at the agent sitting, head in his hands, on the other side of her desk.

"Apparently, there is a disheveled young woman downstairs _demanding_ to speak with you."

Edward startled and looked up.

"Bella?"

"The very same. So, pull yourself together. Sort this." Esme glared at Edward. "Stop acting like the lovesick puppy you are, and start looking like a proper member of HMSS, like you're _supposed_ to be. Enough of this moping. I've had enough. I need you strong, and damn it, Edward, Bella Swan needs you strong. Give her a reason to trust you, to trust _us_."

Edward stood and paced. He wiped his face. When the operation required it—like when Bella had been in danger—he could empty his mind and focus solely on the issue at hand. Why did Bella scatter his thoughts like light through a prism? Stupid question. He knew why.

"And for Christ's sake, do something with your hair."

Edward ran his fingers through the offending tangle, which only made it worse. Esme just shook her head.

"She's here," squawked the intercom.

"Send her in."

Bella walked into Esme's office. Her fingers trembled. Edward looked at her rumpled clothes and dark circles. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He rushed towards her, and Bella held up her hand without looking at him. She focused on Esme.

"You're the woman from the train station."

"Indeed I am. Have a seat, Ms. Swan."

Bella slumped down in Esme's leather chair and rubbed her temples. Edward took a step, paused, and stuck his hands in his pockets. He ran his hand through his hair, then put it back in his pocket. He took another step. Esme relieved him of his suffering and gestured to the chair beside Bella's.

"You're spies. Both of you." Bella's voice was quiet and tired, but sure.

"Yes," Esme answered. "Though my days in the field are long behind me."

"But… the train station."

"Well, my operative here," she indicated Edward with a raised eyebrow, "foolishly let you out of his sight. Honestly, I should sack him for his bungling of this op."

Esme sighed. "And, Ms. Swan, you… are a special case. Surely you must see that."

Bella nodded. She noticed Esme's nameplate, and the letters on it. Bella couldn't help it, she started laughing. "'What a dame…' You're an actual, literal Dame…" she said through her hysterics.

Esme tilted her head to the side and Edward hurried over to the liquor cabinet. He poured a finger of single-malt into a lowball glass, glanced over his shoulder at Bella, and added another finger. Bella drank it in two gulps. Her eyes tightened, but she didn't flinch.

"Feel better?" Esme asked.

"Not really."

"You will." Esme stood, and when the lady rose, so did Edward. Bella heaved herself out of her chair as well, because it seemed the thing to do. "Edward, you two have a lot to talk about. Take her to your uncle's, enjoy the sun in his garden."

"Yes, Chief. Bella?" Edward offered her his arm.

"And feed her something, she looks like she's about to fall over."

Edward guided Bella down to the hidden parking garage. She didn't comment on his car and didn't wait for him to open her door. Silence stretched between them as Edward drove into the rare English sunshine.

**AN:** A short update is better than no update, yes? Thanks to everyone who wished me luck with my real-life stuff! I'm very excited.

I thank my beta, Sara ( abadkitty) often, but still never enough. She's wonderful, as both a beta and a friend. I lucked out when I found her.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

A BULLET FROM CHEKHOV'S GUN

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2013 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter Nineteen**

"That night, the gallery… how was that _supposed_ to go?"

Bella spoke for the first time since leaving Esme's office. They were sitting in the private garden Carlisle shared with several neighbors. A carved granite bench faced a small pond, surrounded by a tangle of climbing pink roses. The stone, unaffected by the weak mid-afternoon sun, chilled Bella's thighs. Only the occasional _whoosh_ of a car passing by was any reminder that a world outside of their own hearts existed. The numbness that had infused Bella's soul and shielded her psyche was filtering out, leaving raw emotion tangled like seaweed on a storm-shocked beach.

Edward sighed. "I was supposed to chat you up, sweep you off your feet, take you home… ah."

"You do _not_ get to keep things from me _anymore_, Edward. Continue." Bella's fingers were trembling. She pressed her hands together, palm to palm, fingertip to fingertip.

"Take you home. Fuck you. Make you think you loved me. Manipulate that false love to get you to work for us. Walk away when I was done."

Bella had suspected as much. During her long train ride across the Continent, she'd accepted that as the most likely conclusion, given her evidence. She had been _just another mission_. Still, hearing it said so starkly, unapologetically, was another matter. She closed her eyes.

"What changed? What made you… act differently?"

"You rejected me—well, my advances."

"You say that as if it's never happened before."

"Ah…" Edward paused—should he tell her about his final year in comprehensive school?

"Fuck's sake!" Bella snapped her head around. She looked down again a moment later. Her voice was softer now. "You never have, have you?"

"Never like that," he admitted. Edward allowed himself to grin; while Bella was pinballing through her emotional range, she didn't look as if she would start throwing punches. Yet. He could afford to be a little cheeky. "And never quite so sylishly, even with your back up. You didn't just turn me down, it was utter repudiation. I was... impressed. Intrigued."

"Ugh." Bella just couldn't bring herself to banter with him, not now. "And what then? After you'd fucked me so good, I'd betray my country?"

Edward flinched. He answered her question, ignoring the veiled accusation for now. "It's not _betrayal_, exactly. The US and UK are allies. Fighting for the same things, on the same side."

Bella swayed on the bench. The stress was getting to her—all that whiskey on an empty stomach wasn't helping, either. Edward reached out to steady her, but she shook his hand off. No. She needed answers first.

"Who was he?"

"Who?"

"The man you… killed."

"…Which one?"

Bella took a deep breath, held it, and released it slowly. "The one in front of my apartment."

"No one. A gangster—from Eastern Europe somewhere. He wasn't exactly carrying ID. We've got his DNA, fingerprints, iris scans, and recorded his tattoos. We'll find out." Edward was confident. He had Alice working on it.

"Catholic?"

"Likely, why?"

"I thought his tattoo was in Italian, but it might've been Latin. The one with the crucifix?"

Edward nodded. Bella didn't look up. "I only—I only got a glimpse as he, um, grabbed me. Edward, you… people, _spies_, the CIA, them I can under—"

"The CIA?!" Had the Americans approached her after all?

"_Later_. I can understand them approaching me, but organized crime? Why?"

"Bella…" Edward sighed. He had to tell her the truth, no matter how hard. "Have you heard the term _rendition_?"

"'Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's.' To cause to become; to translate; to pass down…"

"In the context of espionage. Extraordinary rendition."

Bella bit her lip and studied her crossed ankles. The term sounded familiar, but she couldn't place it exactly. "No."

Edward's voice was flat, methodical. "Rendition refers to the practice of handing over a suspect—extralegally—to another nation, particularly one that engages in torture."

"What?!" Bella swallowed. _Torture_. She must not vomit. "They would...?"

"A week or so of food deprivation, sleep deprivation. Loud music piped in, sounds of babies crying, that sort of thing. You'd do whatever they wanted. Trust me." Edward turned his gaze from Bella's face. The images in his mind were a little too real.

"The only challenge would be pushing you hard enough to bend to their will, but not so hard you broke entirely." Edward tried not to think of it. Bella needed him strong.

"What... who? _Why_?"

"He was just an errand boy for a middleman. We don't know who hired him, but it's someone that wants you—who wants your skills. And who hasn't any compunction against getting his hands dirty. They want whatever code you would have made for us. But kidnapping an American national, one being—unofficially, at that point—monitored by the British government... if they'd been caught, if the connection could be _proven_, there would have been an international incident. Hence the fellow on the motorbike."

"Holy shit," Bella swore. Her life was in danger. If she couldn't defend herself against a couple of common thugs at the train station, how would she deal with disciplined operatives and killers-for-hire? _International incidents_?! "I… have to go to the dojo more," she mumbled.

"No, Bella, you don't." Her eyes flashed to his and her spine straightened. The set of her jaw convinced Edward he really oughtn't be telling her what she did and did not have to do. In the distance, someone began to play a piano. The music insinuated itself between them like smoke from a censer. Bella listened; a few of the notes tripped together, and she thought she could pick out the melody—but then it changed.

Edward slid off the bench and took her hand. She didn't pull away this time. "Of course you can still go, if that's what you want, I—you don't _need_ to go. I will protect you. Bella, I will keep you safe, defend you against any enemy."

"Foreign or domestic?" Bella quoted. She'd heard that in the movies.

"The British oath goes a bit differently." Edward smiled—just a touch of amusement in his features—for a second. "Bella… if you took that oath, if you became a British citizen and joined my agency, we'd fight for you. With all the resources of the entire country, we'd fight for you. You wouldn't even have to renounce your American citizenship, the Chief doesn't require that. Dual would be fine, if you needed it. But no matter what happens, or what you choose, I will fight for you. While there's breath in my body, I'll defend you. I'll protect you. No matter what."

Edward raised Bella's hand to his lips and kissed it. "Please. Take the oath, become a citizen. Read in—get classified clearance. Join us, join _me_."

A pale yellow butterfly fluttered toward a bloom Bella couldn't name. In Forks, people grew geraniums and daisies in window boxes. Most wilted and died before their time, soggy and drowning. Here, in a place nearly as wet as her other home, gardeners coaxed forth so many different flowers—roses and dozens of others. Someone tended this garden well. The butterfly fluttered, and Bella was struck by a memory. During her undergrad, Bella had taken Intro to Cinema. She saw a movie called _M_. It was a part of the German Expressionist movement, in which the filmmakers expressed a character's state of mind through his surroundings. The antagonist, a serial killer, stands outside a toy shop while all manner of whirligigs twirl in the background.

Bella wanted to crush the butterfly. Burn the fucking garden to the ground. Make the outside match the inside.

She turned to him to tell him to shove his allies, his agencies, and his protection up his English ass.

Before her were two men inhabiting one body. A glamour of one shimmered on the surface, a desert mirage—the man Bella met in a gallery one rainy night. Underneath was the man she'd caught glimpses of in the months since: the man who blushed, the man who brought her flowers. The man who knew the exact pressure to squeeze a trigger; the gentle brush of fingertips over her cheek, or a kiss on the hand. Which of these was he really, or was he neither? Both?

"It's like looking at a Magic Eye…" Bella murmured.

"What?"

"Huh?" Bella blinked, and the illusion was gone.

Bella wanted Edward to close the careful distance between them, to wrap his arms around her. She wanted to smell only him—warm, clean man—not the powdery fragrance of roses.

"Talk to me, Bella."

"I saw a picture of you," she blurted out.

"Okay…"

"In Afghanistan. There were lots of Army guys… and a man, a dead man… you had your foot on his chest."

"Ah." So that's what brought her racing back home. What was he going to do, deny it? "That was just over the border in Pakistan, actually."

Edward waited for Bella to speak. Bella was waiting for something else, something she couldn't name.

"And I'm trying to reconcile all of the yous. The charmer, the flirt; the almost-shy gentleman who opens doors... the killer who poses for snapshots with corpses, who speaks of it so calmly."

"I'm all of those things, but not any one. I haven't... you make me feel like I'm back in school again. I've never been so unsure of myself since I joined the Service. That me, the Edward that introduced himself in the gallery, he's whom I've been for years now. And the killer. I kill people, Bella, I have to. It's my job, and I'm good at it." Edward took a deep breath and shuffled on his knees even closer. "But I'm the gentleman too. The man my mother raised. You've made me realize that I'm not sure who Edward really is anymore. Except that you bring him out in me, whoever he is. No cover, no persona. You make me want to be Edward again. Bella... that's the Edward that has fallen in love with you."

The garden was silent. No piano, no cars, not even a bird chirping in the distance.

"…In love?" Bella whispered.

"Completely. Irrevocably."

"Edward…"

**AN:** Thanks to my beta, Sara ( abadkitty).

And thank you to everyone still reading this story. My move has gone great, and I'm settling in here in my new home. Hopefully we'll be back on schedule soon.


	20. Chapter Twenty

A BULLET FROM CHEKHOV'S GUN

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2013 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter Twenty**

"She's not one of ours, man," Jasper said. "And not for lack of tryin'."

Edward and his two best friends were sitting in a dim pub suffused with cigar smoke. The Acorn and Legend was notable only in how nondescript it was: small, twenty feet down a side street, nothing to draw attention. Dozens of Londoners passed by it every day, never noticing, just as it had been since World War II. The three men sat at the end of the bar, near the side exit and with the front door in direct line-of-sight.

"So you _have_ approached her, then?" Edward was going to get some answers, finally. No time to play coy.

"We've made… overtures."

"Don't bullshit me, Jasper."

"Nah, Edward man, that's just how the Yanks talk. Means he got shot down," Emmett added in between handfuls of bar peanuts. "Like you."

Edward never should have told them about Bella rejecting him in that damn gallery. He'd never live it down.

"Arsehole," he muttered and stole Emmett's peanuts.

"Why're you asking?" Jasper studied Edward's face, a face that—to a casual observer—betrayed no stress. Just another solicitor, or maybe an investment banker, having a tipple before going home to the missus. Tie loosened, jacket unbuttoned.

Edward stared down into his Jack Daniel's as if the amber liquid were a divination pool. He was out to get himself right-and-proper fucked-up, so he didn't bother with his usual Scotch; this swill would do the job. Emmett was swallowing the last of yet another pint of his favorite Guinness, and Jasper had a bottle of Bud.

"Don't lie to me. I can see you're planning on it."

"Is my ocularis gofuckyourselficus muscle twitching?" Fucking Yankee and his fucking microexpressions.

Jasper waited, rolling his longneck between his palms. Back and forth, from the tips of his fingers to the heel of his hand.

"Stop looking at me like that. The way you're molesting that bottle, you'd give a man ideas," Edward said.

Emmett chuckled. "You _did _join the Agency during Don't Ask, Don't Tell, didn't ya, Jas? Gonna put a pink umbrella in that fecking American piss-water, too?"

Jasper just smiled. "Hey, what I've got in my hand right now hasn't got anything to do with what's between my legs. Unlike Edward—"

"Fuck you. I'm not jerking off _that_ much."

"—Who is usually much more skilled at deflecting uncomfortable questions. Like why, charming devil that he is, he's jerking off a'tall."

_Shit_. Edward walked right into that one.

"Bella, my target…" Edward didn't like to think of himself as a coward, but he couldn't finish.

"How's that going?" Jasper was drawing Edward out. Emmett didn't have the sort of psychological training Jasper did, so he worked to put Edward at ease in his own way: he called for the bartender to turn the rugby on.

"She doesn't trust me. She seems to trust the Chief, and the organization as a whole, but not me. She resents having to keep up her cover at Masen." Bella had been polite but distant in the past week. The worst kind of ambivalence clouded her eyes—wanting something and wanting not to want it. Edward called it an impasse; Bella called it an antinomy. Edward smiled. _Antinomy_. He'd had to Google it when she left.

"She been read in?"

"Yes." And Edward's smile was gone. "She's keeping her American citizenship, at least for now." Edward rubbed his forehead. He'd had to promise that to get her to agree to stay. Bella was asking a lot of him, of his government—but he'd give her so much more. Edward would give her anything.

"You told her… everything?" Jasper asked.

"Hah." Edward took a long drink. "Yeah, everything."

The trio drank in silence. Edward couldn't stop thinking about earlier that day, when Bella handed in a "staff report." Edward had taken the papers from her, and their fingers had brushed.

_Bella gasped and dropped the report. She slid her fingertips along his palm, his fingers. _

_ "Do you feel that?" she murmured. He did. The flip-flop in his belly; the way her heart beat faster. Bella grasped his hand and walked around his desk. She held their joined palms close to her body, inspecting them._

_ "These hands hurt people. They kill."_

_ "Yes." Edward gazed up at her, but her eyes were down. She rubbed her thumbs over his knuckles._

_ "They protect people, though. Defend them. Too."_

_ "Yes." Edward's voice was stronger now. Bella met his eyes, and in them, he saw that same intensity of a week ago, before everything went to shit. He wanted to tell her he loved her again. Would that scare her away? Send her running, from him and the agency?_

_ She kissed his knuckles. Bella placed the report back in his hands—his killing, defending hands—and said, "It's too late."_

_ For what? Too late for what? Did she regret being involved with him, with MI6? Did she think she couldn't get out of this?_

_ Too late—she could never fall in love with a killer, even one who kills to protect?_

_ "Never say that!"_

_ Edward shot to his feet. He was angry, desperate, afraid. Bella reached for him, and he leaned down. The movement was instinctual, like touching a wound with your hands. Bella grasped his square jaw and kissed his cheek. Her face still pressed against his, she said, "Time, Edward. I need time."_

_ Edward watched, breathing too fast, as she walked out of his office again._

"Tell anyone this, I'll have you both burned." Edward wasn't joking. He'd call in every last favor, every life-debt, use every last bit of the Chief's affection for him. Emmett and Jasper exchanged glances. This was serious. Edward's friends nodded, preparing for the worst.

"I... developed feelings... for her."

"Christ!" Emmett shook his head. He shoved his bowl of peanuts away. "You are a spectacular moron."

Edward knocked back the rest of his bourbon. It burned. "I know."

"No wonder you've been so erratic lately. You need to transfer her into another agent's care."

Edward allowed himself to consider it, just briefly. He touched his chest, but there was no knife twisting there to explain the hurt. "I—I can't do that, Jas. I just can't. And…"

"Lord, don't tell me—Edward," Jasper said, his voice quiet. "Did you fall in love with her?"

Glass clinked against the polished wood bar top. The conversations of the other patrons were a murmur in the background. On the telly, the crowd in Twickenham screamed.

"Yes."

"Have you lost your goddamned mind?!" Emmett exclaimed. "Have I taught you nothing?"

"_You_ taught _me_? You heard from The Blonde recently?"

Emmett winced. That was a low blow. "Well, she doesn't have a phone when she's… working. A mobile could ignite her materials, and…"

"That's what I thought." Edward took a deep breath and tried to make his voice softer. "I don't know if I can do it. Be her... boyfriend, be who she needs me to be — and be who I am. What I am."

"You know, Edward, being _with_ someone may not be a bad thing. Having someone to come home to, something personal to fight for. It seems to work for Mossad…" Jasper said.

"She didn't say it back."

"Oh."

"Shite."

The barkeep refilled Edward's glass. A quick look at Edward's face and he left the bottle there. No questions. Discretion, in both employee and patron, was the word at The Acorn and Legend.

"What you need—"

"Do not say _is to go get laid_." Been there, done that, got the sinking feeling of self-loathing to prove it.

"—Is to prove to yourself you can do it, be both. Or find out for sure if you can't. Either way, you need to know."

"Bella's my only mission. I don't have anything like that coming up... Unless Bella's threatened again." And if she was, he'd eliminate that threat. With extreme predjudice. Edward's hand clenched around his glass.

"As it happens," Emmett said, pulling out his cell phone. He grinned, mischievous and joyful. "I may be able to help with that."

**AN:** It's at this point you should read the side-shot, _A Whisper Against the Powder_, if you're so inclined.

Thank you all so very much for sticking with this story, even through the long period between updates. I'm quite happily relocated now, and even more happily employed, so I hope to find my writing rhythm again soon.

And to everyone who followed me over to _Mise-en-Place_ (or followed from!), thank you again for trusting me to take you on these journeys. For loving—or hating—my characters.

Now's probably a good time to remind you of my story blog, on which you can find lots of supplementary, glossary-type information. chekovsgunblog dot blogspot dot com.


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